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The  13th  District 


A  Story  of  a  Candidate 


By 

Brand  Whitlock 


Indianapolis 

The  Bowen-Merrill  Company 

Publishers 


Copyright  1902 
The  Bowen- Merrill  Company 

March 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  &  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS  AND   PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN.   N.  Y. 


To 
E.  B.  W. 


H 


M  A-^^J 


932ST7 


BOOK  I 

OF  THE  PEOPLE 


The  13th  District 


JUST  as  the  train  with  a  salute  of  the  engine's 
whistle  careened  into  full  view  of  the  smoke- 
blackened  shed  that  is  known  in  Grand  Prairie 
as  the  depot,  the  sound  of  cheering  came  to  Gar- 
wood's ears.  He  was  lounging  in  the  smoking  car, 
his  long  legs  stretched  to  the  seat  before  him,  his 
face  begrimed  with  soot  and  gUstening  with  per- 
spiration, his  whole  body  heavy  with  fatigue.  But 
the  cheers,  coming  to  him  in  a  vast  crescendo  that 
even  the  noise  of  the  car-wheels  as  they  hammered 
the  Wabash  crossing  could  not  drown,  brought 
back  to  his  eyes  the  excitement  that  had  been  burn- 
ing in  them  for  days;  a  smile  soothed  his  tired' 
visage,  and  instinctively  he  flexed  in  every  fiber. 
For  a  moment  he  tried  to  hide  the  smile,  but  Ran- 
kin, who  had  so  successfully  managed  his  canvass 
for  him,  and  executed  that  great  manoeuver  on  the 
last  day  of  the  Clinton  convention,  which,  after 
one  thousand  two  hundred  and  nine  ballots  had 
nominated  Garwood  for  Congress,  heaved  his  bulk 

7 


8  The  1 3th  District 

from  the  hot,  cindery,  plush  cushion,  slapped  his 
candidate  on  the  .shoulder  and  said: 
"There's  rxOthiiig  like  it,  is  there?" 
So  Garwood  let  human  feelings  have  their  way 
and  the  smile  fully  illumined  his  haggard  face. 
It  was  a  strong  face,  clean-shaven  after  the  old 
ideal  of  American  statesmen,  that  grew  darker 
and  stronger  in  the  shadow  of  the  slouch  hat  which 
he  now  clapped  upon  his  long  black  hair.  Rankin 
had  succeeded  in  raising  himself  to  his  feet,  and 
stood  upright  in  the  aisle,  shaking  himself  like  a 
Newfoundland.  He  drew  off  the  linen  duster  he 
wore,  and  draped  it  over  his  arm,  then  seizing 
his  little  traveling-bag,  which  in  contrast  to  his 
huge  body  looked  like  a  mere  reticule,  he  waved 
it  toward  the  station  and  said^  as  if  he  had  just 
conjured  the  presence  of  the  crowd: 

"There  they  are,  Jerry,  there  they  are!" 
Garwood  had  risen,  and  through  the  windows 
of  the  swaying  coach  he  could  see  the  faces  of  the 
crowd.  The  men  on  board  the  train,  most  of  them 
members  of  the  Polk  County  delegation  which  had 
stood  by  him  with  solid,  unbroken  ranks,  had  been 
yelling  all  the  way  from  Clinton,  and  now,  though 
it  seemed  impossible  that  they  should  have  any 
voices  left  in  their  hoarse  and  swollen  throats,  they 
raised  a  shout  that  swelled  above  the  cheers  out- 
side and  pressing  to  the  windows  and  the  doors  of 
the  coaches,  they  challenged  their  neighbors  with 
the  exulting  cry: 

"What's  the  matter  with  Garwood?" 
Outside  there  rose  an  answering:  roar: 


On  the  Stump  9 

"He's  all  right!" 

But  the   Polk   County   delegation,  as   if   it  de- 
manded confirmation,  yelled  again: 
'Who's  all  right?" 

And  then  the   crowd  rose  to  its   tip-toes,  and 
the  answering  cry  was  of  such  immense  unanimity 
that  it  made  the  very  platform  shake: 
"G-a-r-wood!" 

The  train  had  stopped,  and  Garwood  was  being 
hustled  toward  the  door.  Some  impatient  fel- 
lows from  the  platform  outside  who  had  mounted 
the  steps  of  the  car,  now  pressed  in,  and  stretched 
their  bodies  incredible  distances  across  the  backs 
of  seats  to  grasp  Garwood's  hand^  to  seize  him  by 
the  coat,  and  to  call  in  his  face: 
"Good  boy,  Jerry!" 
"You're  the  stuff!" 

He  was  oblivious  of  the  progress  he  was  mak- 
ing, if  he  was  making  any  at  all,  and  the  conductor, 
although  he  had  caught  the  contagious  spirit  of 
the  triumphant  Polk  County  delegation  soon  after 
the  train  left  Clinton,  and  had  shown  Garwood  the 
deference  due  to  a  successful  candidate,  began  to 
be  concerned  for  the  time  he  was  losing,  and  said 
with  smiling  indulgence: 
"Gentlemen,  gentlemen!" 

Big  Rankin  then  squeezed  himself  in  front  of 
Garwood,  and  waving  his  little  bag  dangerously  be- 
fore him,  crushed  his  way  out,  drawing  the  others 
after  him  in  his  turbulent  wake.  Meanwhile  the 
passengers  in  the  train  looked  on  with  the  good- 
humored  toleration  an  American  crowd  always  ex- 


10  The  13  th   District 

cites  in  those  not  participants  in  its  moving  enthu- 
siasms, and  mildly  inquired  what  town  that  was. 

When  Garwood  gained  the  platform  of  the  car 
and  the  people  at  last  caught  sight  of  him,  the 
cheering  suddenly  attained  a  new  pitch  of  inten- 
sity, and  a  band,  clustered  near  the  rotting  log 
where  the  hacks  made  their  stand,  spontaneously 
crashed  into  "Hail  to  the  Chief!"  The  band  played 
the  piece  in  furious  time,  and  the  man  who  per- 
formed on  the  tuba  seemed  to  have  taken  upon 
himself  the  responsibility  of  voicing  the  whole 
enthusiasm  of  Polk  County;  but  to  Garwood, 
to  whom  the  strains  came  across  that  tossing  mass 
of  heads  and  hats  and  faces,  the  music  was  sweet. 
He  felt  himself  suddenly  choking;  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  He  could  not  have  trusted  himself  to 
speak  just  then,  though  the  cheers  were  being 
more  and  more  punctuated  by  cries  of  "Speech! 
Speech!"  Luckily,  the  man  behind  him,  urged  by 
the  brakeman,  for  the  conductor,  watch  in  hand, 
was  scowling,  began  to  push,  the  crowd  in  front 
held  out  a  hundred  arms  to  seize  him,  and  Gar- 
wood was  swallowed  up  in  that  stifling  press  of 
men. 

Somewhere  in  the  depths  of  the  multitude  Gar- 
wood was  conscious  of  meeting  the  mayor,  who 
took  his  hand,  when  he  could  reclaim  it  from  a 
score  of  other  hands  thrust  forth  all  about  him,  and 
then  in  a  zigzag  path  of  glory,  he  was  dragged 
through  the  throng,  Rankin  and  the  delegates 
following,  moving  like  a  current  in  the  sea. 
Garwood  laughed  as  he  was  pulled  this  way  and 


On  the  Stump  ii 

that,  and  tried  to  answer  each  one  of  the  thousand 
greetings  poured  in  on  him  from  every  side.  The 
perspiration  streamed  from  his  face.  His  waistcoat 
had  been  torn  open  and  when  some  one  saw  this 
and  shouted  "Look  out  for  your  watch^  Jerry!"  the 
whole  crowd  laughed  delightedly  at  the  witticism, 
and  Garwood  himself  laughed  with  them. 

The  crowd  had  been  a  first  surprise  to  Garwood, 
the  band  had  been  another,  now  a  third  was  added 
by  the  sight  of  an  open  carriage  drawn  by  two 
white  horses.  He  had  not  expected  an  ovation, 
which  made  it  all  the  more  grateful  when  it  came, 
and  as  he  was  being  helped  into  the  carriage  with  a 
solicitude  that  was  a  new  thing  in  men's  treatment 
of  him,  he  expressed  something  of  this  to  Rankin. 
But  Rankin,  who  had  been  in  politics  all  his  days 
and  could  view  the  varying  moods  of  the  populace 
with  a  politician's  cynicism,  replied: 

"Well,  if  we'd  been  skinned,  they  wouldn't  'a' 
been  here  when  you  needed  sympathy." 

The  truth  flashed  upon  Garwood  at  once,  and  if  it 
embittered  for  an  instant  his  triumph  when  it  was  at 
its  sweetest,  it  seemed  to  give  him  a  better  control, 
so  that  as  he  settled  himself  in  the  back  seat  of 
the  carriage,  with  the  mayor  beside  him,  and  Ran- 
kin filling  the  whole  front  seat,  he  rearranged  his 
rumpled  garments,  readjusted  his  hat,  and  then 
looked  calmly  around  on  the  crowd  that  swarmed 
up  to  the  carriage  wheels  as  if  they  had  never  seen 
him  before.  His  face  was  calm  and  composed, 
almost  stern.  It  was  the  face  he  hoped  to  leave  to 
history. 


12  The  I  3th  District 

As  the  band,  to  whom  the  leader  had  been  dis- 
tributing the  precious  leaves  of  its  most  classical 
number,  was  forming  in  the  street,  Garwood  for 
the  first  time  saw  many  carriages,  filled  with  men 
and  women  who  waved  hats  and  fluttered  handker- 
chiefs, now  that  they  thought  he  could  see  and 
recognize  them.  Garwood  smiled,  though  reserv- 
edly, and  lifted  his  hat  with  a  sudden  consciousness 
that  he,  himself,  at  last,  was  the  one  who  was  lift- 
ing the  hat  from  the  open  carriage  in  the  street, 
and  not  some  other  man.  He  did  not  neglect  to 
smile,  nor  to  raise  his  hat  gallantly  to  each  car- 
riage load  as  he  swept  his  eye  along  the  line  of 
vehicles,  but  he  was  not  thinking  of  their  occu- 
pants, nor  of  himself,  wholly.  He  was  thinking  of 
a  certain  surrey  he  knew  well,  from  which  a  pair 
of  eyes  would  smile  as  his  did,  perhaps  be  moist- 
ened by  tears  as  his  had  been  a  few  minutes  before, 
— the  eyes  of  one  to  whom  all  this  would  be  as  sweet 
as  it  was  to  him.  But  the  surrey  was  not  there. 
He  was  surprised,  though  in  a  way  different  from 
that  in  which  the  crowd  and  the  band  and  the  open 
carriage  had  surprised  him.  He  was  disappointed, 
and  felt  himself  entitled  to  a  little  shade  of  resent- 
ment, to  a  little  secret  hurt  at  the  heart.  It  was 
the  hour  in  the  afternoon  when  she  would  be  driv- 
ing down  to  the  bank  for  her  father.  He  could 
not  see  why  she  had  not  come.  Perhaps  she  felt 
a  delicacy  about  the  publicity  of  it,  though  he  did 
not  see  why  she  should. 

But  the  band  had  swung  into  the  middle  of  the 
street.    The  drum-major,  in  his  hot  bear-skin  and 


On  the  Stump  13 

tall  leggings,  was  facing  them  with  his  baton  held 
horizontally  before  him  in  his  two  hands.  He 
blew  the  shrill  whistle,  clenched  in  his  teeth,  and 
then,  wheeling,  pointed  up  Kaskaskia  Street  and 
strode  away  for  the  public  square.  The  leader 
trilled  two  little  notes  on  his  cornet,  the  snare 
drums  rattled  a  long  roll,  and  the  band  burst  into 
"See,  the  Conquering  Hero  Comes!"  The  car- 
riage moved,  the  crowd  cheered  again,  and  the  lit- 
tle procession  began  his  triumphal  entry  for  him. 
"Look  mad,  Jerry,"  advised  Rankin,  in  humor- 
ous appreciation  of  the  whole  demonstration.  The 
remark  did  not  exactly  please  Garwood,  and  for 
an  instant  he  did  look  mad,  but  he  smiled  again 
and  composed  his  features  to  the  dignity  required 
of  him  in  that  hour.  Some  of  the  private  carriages 
followed  in  his  train  and  the  crowd  streamed  along 
the  sidewalks  on  each  side  of  the  street.  A  num- 
ber of  small  boys  trudged  in  the  deep  white  dust, 
mingled  with  the  band,  or  crowded  after  Gar- 
wood's carriage,  breaking  into  a  trot  now  and  then 
in  their  determination  to  keep  up  with  the  proces- 
sion. Two  or  three  of  them,  in  order  to  identify 
themselves  more  closely  with  the  affair,  laid  their 
dirty  little  hands  on  the  panels  of  the  carriage. 
Garwood  felt  an  inward  resentment  at  this,  and 
when  Rankin  lolled  over  in  his  seat  and  snatched 
the  cap  from  the  matted  head  of  one  of  the  boys, 
and  the  crowd  on  the  sidewalk  laughed  uproar- 
iously, Garwood  felt  like  rebuking  him.  He  had  a 
moral  conviction  that  at  least  two  other  boys  were 
swinging  on  the  springs  behind  the  carriage,  and 


14  The  13th   District 

he  would  have  hked  to  dislodge  them,  but  he  knew 
he  dare  not.  In  the  last  ten  minutes  imperial  am- 
bitions had  stirred  within  him.  He  began  already 
to  dream  of  triumphal  marches  amid  wider  scenes, 
with  troops  or  at  least  policemen  lining  the  curb, 
and  yet  his  politician's  sense  reminded  him  of  the 
quickness  with  which  American  voters  resent  any 
little  assumption  of  undemocratic  airs,  however 
much  they  may  like  it  on  a  larger  scale.  And  so 
when  Rankin,  to  appease  the  frightened  lad  whose 
cap  he  had  snatched,  took  the  youngster  by  the 
collar  and  dragged  him  into  the  carriage,  Garwood 
felt  it  would  be  better  to  laugh  with  him  and  with 
the  crowd. 

The  procession  turned  into  Main  Street,  and  so 
on  down  to  the  square,  with  its  old  brown  court 
house  and  its  monument  inscribed  to  the  soldiers 
and  sailors  of  Polk  County,  though  Polk  County 
had  never  had  any  sailors.  The  procession  ended 
at  the  Cassell  House,  though  why  can  hardly  be 
told.  Garwood  did  not  live  there,  but  all  proces- 
sions of  that  kind  in  Grand  Prairie  end  at  the  Cas- 
sell House.  The  band  stopped  in  front  of  the 
hotel,  and  the  musicians  seized  oflf  their  caps, 
mopped  their  brows  and  looked  around  toward 
Rankin  furtively,  thinking  of  beer.  But  Rankin, 
again  swinging  his  dangerous  little  bag,  was  mak- 
ing a  way  through  the  crowd  toward  the  wide  door. 
Garwood  was  almost  lifted  from  his  carriage,  and 
felt  himself  helplessly  swept  into  the  hotel  office 
on  the  great  human  breaker  that  rolled  in  that  way. 


On  the  Stump  15 

When  his  feet  touched  the  floor  again,  the  loud 
cry  went  up : 

"Speech!  Speech!" 

Rankin  turned  toward  him. 

"You'll  have  to  give  it  to  'em^  Jerry,  'fore  they'll 
let  you  go." 

And  he  led  the  way  up  the  stairs  toward  the 
parlor.  Garwood  went  after  him,  with  the  mayor 
and  a  self-appointed  committee  following,  and 
in  another  minute  he  had  stepped  out  on  the 
balcony,  and  bared  his  head  to  the  breeze  that  was 
blowing  warm  off  the  prairie.  As  he  stood  there, 
erect  and  calm,  with  the  little  wind  loosening  the 
locks  over  his  forehead,  his  lips  compressed  and 
white,  his  right  hand  in  the  breast  of  his  coat,  after 
the  fashion  of  all  our  orators,  many  in  the  crowd 
for  the  first  time  were  conscious  of  how  like  a  con- 
gressman this  young  fellow  really  looked.  They 
began  to  celebrate  the  discovery  by  another  cheer, 
but  Garwood  drew  his  hand  from  the  bosom  of  his 
coat  and  raised  it  toward  them.  Instantly  a  warn- 
ing "Sh!"  ran  through  the  whole  concourse, 
the  few  wagons  rattling  by  halted  suddenly,  and  a 
hush  fell.  Garwood's  eye  swept  the  old  familiar 
square,  his  face  flushed,  his  heart  beat  high,  but 
outwardly  he  was  calm,  as  he  afifected  the  impres- 
sive pause  that  adds  so  much  to  oratory.  And  then 
he  began  with  studied  simplicity. 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  seemed 
low,  but  which  carried  in  the  evening  air  across 
the  square,  "and  fellow  citizens:  I  am  profoundly 
touched  by  this  welcome.    Words  are  inadequate 


i6  The  1 3  th  District 

to  express,  fittingly,  how  much  it  means  to  me. 
For  thirty  years  I  have  gone  in  and  out  among 
you,  as  a  boy  and  as  a  man,  and  it  has  always 
seemed  to  me  that  the  highest  honor  I  could 
achieve  in  life  would  be  found  in  your  respect,  your 
confidence,  if  possible,  your  love.  Your  wishes 
and  your  welfare  have  ever  been  my  first  and  high- 
est thought,  I  know  not  what  responsibilities  may 
await  me  in  the  future,  but  whether  they  be  small 
and  light  or  great  and  heavy,  still  my  wish  and  pur- 
pose shall  remain  the  same — to  serve  you,  well  and 
faithfully;  whatever  they  may  be,  I  know  that  noth- 
ing can  ever  bring  to  my  heart  the  deep  gratitude 
or  fill  me  with  the  sweet  satisfaction  this  magnifi- 
cent welcome  affords. 

"You  must  not  expect  a  speech  from  me  this 
evening.  At  a  later  day  and  at  some  more  con- 
venient and  appropriate  season,  I  shall  address  you 
upon  the  issues  of  the  approaching  campaign,  but 
I  would  not,  even  if  I  were  physically  able  to  do  so, 
intrude  partisan  considerations  upon  you  in  this 
hour.  But  I  can  not  let  you  go  away  without  the 
assurance  that  I  am  deeply  sensible  of  the  great 
honor  you  do  me.  With  a  sincerity  wholly  un- 
feigned I  thank  you  for  it.  May  God  bless  you 
all,  may  you  prosper  in  your  basket  and  your  store 
and — "  the  speaker's  eye  wandered  far  away  to 
the  ragged  edges  of  the  crowd — "thanking  you 
again  and  again,  I  bid  you  good  night." 

A  cheer  promptly  arose,  and  Garwood  bowed 
himself  backward  through  the  window.     Rankin, 


On  the  Stump  17 

standing  near  him,  laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  mayor. 

"John,"  he  said  to  that  executive,  "he'll  do." 
Then  the  hand-shaking  and  the  congratulations 
began  again.  Garwood  stood  there,  at  times  pass- 
ing over  his  brow  the  handkerchief  he  held  in  his 
left  hand,  while  he  gave  to  the  men  who  passed  by 
him  a  right  hand  that  was  red  and  swollen  and 
beginning  to  ache.  And  outside,  the  crowd,  feel- 
ing, when  its  American  passion  for  speech-making 
was  satisfied,  that  it  had  haid  its  due,  went  away, 
leaving  the  square  deserted. 


II 


THE  mother  of  the  new  candidate  for  Congress 
in  the  Thirteenth  District  expressed  her  pride 
in  her  son's  achievement  by  cooking  for  him 
that  night,  with  her  own  hands,  a  supper  of  the 
things  he  most  liked  to  eat,  and  while  the  candidate 
consumed  the  supper  with  a  gusto  that  breathed 
its  ultimate  sigh  in  the  comfortable  sense  of  reple- 
tion with  which  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  his  ap- 
preciation ended  there,  and  half  an  hour  later  he 
left  his  mother  to  the  usual  loneliness  of  her  wid- 
owed life.  Sangamon  Avenue,  where  the  self-elected 
better  element  of  Grand  Prairie  had  gathered  to 
enjoy  the  envy  of  the  lower  classes,  stretched  away 
under  its  graceful  shade-trees  in  aristocratic  leisure. 
The  darkness  of  a  summer  evening  rolled  under 
the  elms  and  oaks,  and  blurred  the  outlines  of  the 
tall  chimneys  and  peaked  roofs  which  a  new  archi- 
tect coming  from  the  East  had  lately  given  to  the 
houses  of  the  prosperous.  Here  and  there  a  strip 
of  cool  and  open  lawn,  each  blade  of  its  carefully 
mown  blue-grass  threading  beads  of  dew,  sparkled 
in  the  white  light  of  the  arc  Lamps  that  hung  at 
the  street  crossings.  On  the  wide  verandas  which 
were  shrouded  in  the  common  darkness,  white 
forms  could  be  seen  indistinctly,  rocking  back  and 
forth,  and  the  murmur  of  voices  could  be  heard, 
in  bland  and  desultory  interchange  of  the  banali- 
i8 


On  the  Stump  ig 

ties  of  village  life.  The  avenue  had  been  laid  an 
inch  deep  in  mud  by  the  garden  hose,  which  might 
have  been  seen  in  the  last  hours  of  the  day,  united 
in  a  common  effort  to  subdue  the  dust  that  puflfed 
in  little  white  clouds  as  Grand  Prairie's  horses 
stumbled  along.  Now  and  then  some  surrey,  the 
spokes  of  its  wheels  glistening  in  the  electric  light, 
went  squeaking  leisurely  by  as  some  family  sol- 
emnly enjoyed  its  evening  drive;  now  and  then 
some  young  man,  his  cigarette  glowing  into  a 
spark  of  life  and  then  dying  away,  loitered  down 
town.  The  only  other  life  was  represented  by  the 
myriads  of  insects  feverishly  rising  and  falling  in 
clouds  about  the  arc  lamps,  or  some  silent  bat  de- 
scribing vast  circles  in  the  darkness,  and  at  intervals 
swinging  into  the  light  on  membranous  wings  to 
snatch  her  evening  meal,  bite  by  bite,  from  that 
mass  of  strenuous,  purposeless  animal  life. 

As  he  strolled,  slowly,  for  he  wished  to  preserve 
his  collar  intact  until  he  should  present  himself 
immaculate  before  the  woman  of  his  love,  Gar- 
wood felt  some  of  the  peace  of  the  sleepy  town 
fall  upon  him.  He  gave  himself  up  to  the  sensuous 
efifect  of  it,  inhaling  the  odors  of  a  summer  night, 
and  when  he  turned  into  the  yard  of  the  Harkness 
home  his  heart  leaped.  A  filmy  figure  in  white 
slowly  floated,  as  it  seemed  to  his  romantic  vision, 
out  of  the  darkness  that  lay  thick  under  the  veranda. 
Half  way  down  the  walk,  under  the  oaks,  they  met. 

"Jerome!    I'm  so  proud!" 

The  pride  she  had  felt  in  him  still  glowed  in  her 
eyes  as  they  sat  there  in  the  wicker  chairs,  but  now 


20  The  13  th  District 

when  she  heard  him  sigh,  she  bent  toward  him, 
and  her  voice  filled  with  a  woman's  pity  as  she 
said: 

"You're  tired,  aren't  you — poor  boy?" 

"Yes,  very  tired,"  he  assented,  with  a  man's 
readiness  to  be  coddled.  "But  then,"  he  added, 
"it's  rest  just  to  be  here," 

He  laid  his  hand  on  hers  and  she  drew  closer, 
looking-  eagerly  into  his  face.  She  needed  no 
light  other  than  the  glow  of  the  summer  night  to 
make  his  features  plain  to  her.  She  looked  long 
at  him,  and  then  she  withdrew  her  hand,  and  sat 
erect,  smoothing  her  skirts  with  an  affected  prim- 
ness and  folding  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

"Now  you  must  tell  me  all  about  it,"  she  said. 
"The  newspapers  are  so  unsatisfactory,  and  you 
know  I've  only  had  the  one  little  note  you  wrote 
me  Wednesday  night — when  you  thought  you 
were  beaten." 

They  laughed,  now  that  they  could  do  so  with 
impunity,  at  the  danger  he  had  been  in  so  short  a 
time  before. 

"Well,"  he  began,  "it  was  a  close  shave,  after 
all.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Jim  Rankin  I'd  have  come 
home  to-night  beaten,  and  there  wouldn't  have 
been  any  band  or  any  carriage  or  any  crowd  to 
greet  me — as  Rankin  reminded  me  this  afternoon 
when  I  was  near  bursting  at  the  reception  I  did 
get."  He  laughed,  but  the  laugh  had  a  tinge  of 
bitterness. 

"I  would  have  been  there,"  she  said  simply. 

"If  I'd  been  beaten?" 


On  the  Stump  21 

"Yes." 

"I  missed  you  this  afternoon,"  he  said.  "I  looked 
for  you  everywhere." 

"There  were  enough  there,  weren't  there?" 

"No,  not  quite,"  he  said;  "the  crowd  lacked  one, 
just  one."  He  spoke  with  a  little  injury  in  his 
tone.  And  the  girl,  with  her  quick  apperception 
of  it,  said: 

"I  wanted  you  all  to  myself,  dear,  I  can  give 
you  part  of  the  time  to  the  public — but  I  can't  share 
you."  She  said  this  in  the  pride  of  a  new  concep- 
tion of  Garwood  that  had  just  come  to  her — a  con- 
ception of  him  as  a  public  man,  sacrificing  himself 
for  the  people.  Garwood  himself  instantly  shared 
the  conception. 

"Isn't  that  better?"  she  added. 

For  answer  he  took  her  hand  again,  pressing  it 
in  his  big  palm. 

"And  now  tell  me,"  she  said. 

•So  he  told  her  the  story  of  the  Clinton  conven- 
tion; how  the  delegations  from  the  seven  counties 
that  comprised  the  Thirteenth  Congressional  Dis- 
trict, his  district,  as  he  was  already  careful  to  speak 
of  it,  had  gone  there  and  stubbornly  balloted  for 
one,  two,  three  days  without  a  change  or  a  break, 
until  a  thousand  ballots  had  been  cast,  and  men 
were  worn  and  spent  with  the  long-drawn  agony  of 
those  tense  hours  in  the  stifling  opera  house.  He 
felt  a  touch  of  the  old  fear  that  had  come  over  him 
when  he  heard  on  Thursday  night  that  Tazewell 
County  would  go  to  Sprague  the  next  day,  and  it 


22  The  13  th  District 

looked  as  if,  the  deadlock  thus  broken,  Sprague 
would  be  chosen. 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  "Sprague  had  his  own 
county,  Moultrie,  and  Logan,  and  if  he  got  Taze- 
well it  would  mean  thirty  votes  more — almost  a 
cinch." 

The  girl's  attention  flagged  in  her  effort  to  pene- 
trate the  mysteries  of  ballots  and  delegations. 

"That  was  the  night  I  wrote  you,"  he  went  on, 
and  her  interest  brightened  with  her  understand- 
ing.   "I  was  mighty  blue  that  night." 

He  made  a  pause,  for  the  pity  of  it. 

"And  that  was  the  night,  too,  when  Jim  Rankin 
came  to  the  front.  I  never  knew  him  to  rise  to 
such  heights  of  political  ability  before.  I  tell  you, 
Emily,  we  must  be  good  to  Jim  Rankin — he's  the 
best  friend  we've  got.  He  went  out  after  supper, 
and  was  out  all  the  night.  When  he  came  in  at 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning — I  had  just  thrown 
myself  on  the  bed  in  my  clothes  to  snatch  a  wink 
of  sleep — he  came  into  our  room  and  said,  'Well, 
Jerry,  my  boy,  we've  got  him  skinned  now — Piatt 
will  go  to  you  on  the  first  ballot  to-morrow,  and 
McKimmon  will  swing  Mason  on  the  second — 
and  that'll  settle  it.'  " 

Garwood  paused.  She  sat  with  her  chin  on  her 
hand.  The  lace  of  her  sleeve  fell  back,  exposing 
her  round  forearm,  white  like  marble  in  the  moon- 
light that  was  spilling  through  the  purple  shadows 
of  the  trees  and  trickling  on  her  dress.  But  a  sober- 
ness had  clouded  her  eyes. 


On  the  Stump  23 

"How  do  you  suppose  he  did  it,  Jerome?"  she 
asked  presently. 

"I  don't  know,"  Garwood  answered,  "and  what's 
more,"  he  added  with  a  dry  little  laugh,  "I  don't 
want  to." 

The  girl's  soberness  deepened  as  the  silence  in 
which  she  received  his  last  words  lengthened.  Gar- 
wood glanced  at  her  in  some  concern,  and  then  he 
hurried  on. 

"Well,  it  came  out  just  as  he  said.  The  next 
morning  Piatt  County  threw  her  vote  to  me  on 
the  first  ballot,  and  by  the  time  it  got  down  to 
Tazewell  it  was  all  over  with  Sprague;  his  man 
Simp  Lewis — you've  heard  me  speak  of  him — 
moved  to  make  it  unanimous,  and  the  noise 
began." 

He  laughed  again,  this  time  in  sheer  joy  as  he 
lived  those  hours  once  more. 

"It  lasted  all  morning,  when  we  weren't  making 
speeches  telling  how  we  loved  each  other,  and  the 
party,  and  the  dear  old  flag;  it  lasted  all  the  way 
over  here  on  the  train,  until  I  got  home  and  saw 
everybody  but  the  one  woman  I'd  done  it  all  for." 

"But  you  saw  me  in  the  crowd  while  you  were 
speaking  from  the  hotel  balcony,  didn't  you?" 

The  scene  in  the  square  flashed  back  to  him. 
The  sea  of  faces  turned  up  to  his,  the  halting  vehi- 
cles, the  heads  at  windows,  the  raveling  edges  of 
the  common  crowd — he  saw  it  all. 

"I  had  never  heard  you  make  a  speech  before, 
you  know,"  she  went  on,  "and  I  had  always  wished 
to — it  was  a  splendid  speech." 


i24  Tihe  i3th   District 

"Yes,"  he  mused,  and  strangely  for  him,  seemed 
not  to  have  heard  her  praise,  "yes,  I  saw  you — I 
saw  nothing  but  you,  I  thought  of  nothing  but 
you!" 

"Oh,  Jerome,"  she  said,  "I  was  happy  and  proud 
that  minute  to  think " 

Suddenly  he  seized  her,  crushing  her  to  him  as 
if  in  some  sudden  access  of  fear. 

"Dearest!"  he  said,  "all  this  is  nothing  to  me 
beside  you  and  your  love.  Do  you  really  love  me 
so  very  much?" 

"Oh,  you  know!"  he  heard  her  whisper. 

"And  will — always?" 

"Always." 

"No  matter  what  I  did — or  have  done?" 

"No  matter,"  she  said;  "you  are — you.  You  are 
— mine." 

"Are  you  sure,"  he  persisted,  somehow  growing 
fierce,  "sure — do  you  know  what  you  are  saying? 
No  matter  what  I  did,  how  unworthy  I  became, 
to  what  depths  I  sank" — even  in  that  instant  he 
was  conscious  of  a  dramatic  quality  in  the  situa- 
tion, conscious  of  the  eloquence,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  of  his  words — "to  what  depths  of  shame,  of 
dishonor?" 

"Why — Jerome!"  the  girl  raised  her  face,  half 
frightened,  "what  do  you " 

"Tell  me,"  he  demanded,  and  he  fairly  shook 
her,  "how  do  you  know?" 

She  raised  her  face,  and  he  saw  that  it  was  moist- 
ened with  tears.  She  withdrew  from  his  embrace, 
and  sat  erect.     He  let  his  arms  fall  to  his  side. 


On  the   Stump  25 

Then  she  took  his  face  in  her  two  hands,  she 
looked  into  his  eyes,  and  she  gave  a  scornful  little 
laugh. 

"How  do  I  know?"  she  said.  "Ah,  Jerome,  be- 
cause I  know  you;  because  I  know  that  you  could 
do  nothing  dishonorable!" 

He  hung  his  head,  helpless,  and  the  impulse  to 
tell  her  passed  with  the  moment  that  made  it  im- 
possible. 

Late  in  the  evening,  when  he  was  going,  as  he 
stood  below  her  on  the  steps  of  the  veranda,  she 
said  to  him: 

"Jerome,  do  you  know  what  Mr.  Rankin  did  to 
get  those  delegations  to — swing  to  you,  did  you 
say?" 

"Why,  no,"  he  laughed,  "why?" 

"You  are  sure  there  was  no — no — money?"  She 
said  the  word  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  it. 

"Money!"  he  exclaimed.  "Money!"  and  he 
laughed  the  same  laugh  of  protestation  she  had 
laughed  a  while  before,  though  he  laughed  the 
big  laugh  of  a  man.  "Why,  my  precious  little  girl, 
money  would  be  the  last  thing  in  the  world  with 
me — I  guess  it  always  will  be!"  he  observed  in 
rueful  parenthesis.  "Don't  you  believe  me  when  I 
tell  you  that  my  law  practice,  and  God  knows  it 
was  small  enough  as  it  was,  has  gone  to  pieces  in 
this  campaign,  that  I'm  insolvent,  that  I'm  a  pau- 
per, that  I'd  have  to  be  buried  in  the  potter's  field 
if  I  were  to  die  to-night?" 

"Don't,  don't!  Jerome,  please,"  she  held  her 
hand  to  his  lips  to  hush  him,  "don't  talk  of  dying! 


26  The  1 3  th  District 

I'm  frightened  to-night."  She  shuddered  once 
again  into  his  arms. 

"Frightened?"  he  scoffed.    "What  at?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know;  it's  fooHsh.  I  guess  it's  just 
because  I'm  so  happy — and  I'm  afraid  of  too  much 
happiness." 

He  could  only  fold  her  closely  in  his  arms  again. 
He,  too,  was  filled  with  a  fear  he  dare  not  name. 

It  was  late  when  Garwood  walked  homeward 
under  the  maples  that  poured  their  thick  shadows 
along  the  sidewalks  of  Sangamon  Avenue.  The  car- 
riages which  in  the  early  evening  had  squeaked  leis- 
urely by  in  the  sprinkled  street  had  taken  their  oc- 
cupants home.  The  houses  of  Grand  Prairie's  aris- 
tocrats were  closed  for  the  night  and  loomed  now 
dark  and  still.  Here  and  there,  on  a  dusky  lawn, 
he  could  see  some  counterfeit  fountain,  improvised 
of  the  garden  hose,  left  to  run  all  night,  tossing 
its  sparkling  drops  into  the  mellow  light  of  the 
moon.  The  only  sounds  beyond  the  tinkle  of  these 
fountains  were  the  sounds  of  a  wide  summer  night, 
the  crickets,  the  katydids^  far  away  the  booming 
of  bullfrogs,  farther  away  still  the  baying  of  some 
lonesome  dog.  It  was  all  peace  without,  the  peace 
of  brooding  night;  but  within,  fear  lay  cold  and 
heavy  on  his  heart;  not  alone  the  fear  which,  with 
its  remorse  and  regret,  he  had  felt  keen  as  knives 
at  his  heart  an  hour  before  when  the  woman  he 
loved  lay  passive  in  his  arms,  but  a  new  fear, 
though  born  in  the  same  brood.  Under  its  stress, 
his  imagination  tortured  him  with  scenes  in  the 
forthcoming  campaign,  black  headlines  in  opposi- 


On  the  Stump  27 

tion  newspapers,  a  voice  bawling  a  question  at  him 
from  the  crowd  he  was  addressing,  until  the  cumu- 
lative force  of  their  disclosures  should  drive  him 
from  the  stump. 

But  presently  he  put  forth  his  will.  "Pshaw!" 
he  said,  almost  aloud,  "how  foolish!  I  am  young, 
I  am  strong,  I  have  the  love  of  the  best  woman  on 
earth;  she  would  not  believe  if  they  told  her!  I 
can  win,  and  I  will  win!" 

He  laughed  aloud,  because  the  street  was  still, 
and  the  night  was  deep.  He  flung  up  his  arms 
and  spread  them  wide,  taking  a  long,  deep  breath 
of  the  sweet  air.  "I  will  win,  win  it  all — her  and 
everything  besides — Congress,  Governor,  the  Sen- 
ate— all!"  He  strode  along  erect  and  calm,  full  of 
a  vast  faith  in  his  own  lusty  powers,  full  of  the 
subUme  confidence  of  youth. 


Ill 


EMILY  HARKNESS  might  easily  have  been 
the  leader  of  what  the  local  newspapers,  imi- 
tating those  of  Chicago,  had  recently  begun 
to  call  the  "Smart  Set,"  a  position  which  would  have 
entitled  her  to  the  distinction  of  being  the  most 
popular  girl  in  town,  but  because  she  did  not  accept 
the  position,   she  was  perhaps  the   most  unpop- 
ular girl  in  town.     "Society,"  in   Grand  Prairie, 
lacked   too   much  in   what   is   known   as   eligible 
young  men,  for  while  the  town  produced  the  nor- 
mal  quantity   of   that    product,    those  who   were 
strong  and  ambitious  went  away  to  Chicago  or  St, 
Louis  where,  in  a  day  of  economical  tendencies 
that  were  fast  making  the  small  towns  of  a  more 
prosperous  past  but  a  shaded  and  sleepy  tradition, 
there  were  larger  fields   for  their  young  efforts. 
Those    that    were    left    were    employed    in    their 
fathers'  businesses,  and  some  of  them  worked  in 
the  three  banks  of  the  town,  but  while  these  were 
able,  out  of  their  scant  salaries,  to  arrange  for  a 
series  of  assembly  balls  in  the  dining-room  of  the 
Cassell  House  every  winter,  they  found  calls  upon 
the  girls,  in  whose  parlors  they  would  rock  all 
the  evening,  chafifing  each  other  with  personalities, 
their  nearest  approach  to  the  society  life. 
\       The  social  activities  of  the  place  were  therefore 
left  largely  to  the  initiative  of  the  elder  women,  who 

28 


On  the  Stump  29 

formed  the  usual  number  of  clubs,  held  the  usual 
number  of  meetings,  and  derived,  possibly,  the 
usual  amount  of  benefit  therefrom.  These  clubs 
were  inaugurated  under  a  serious  pretense  of  feed- 
ing starved  intellectualities,  and  were  impregnated 
at  the  first  with  a  strong  literary  flavor,  but  in  the 
end  they  administered  to  a  bodily  rather  than  a 
mental  hunger,  and  their  profound  programs  de- 
generated into  mere  menus. 

The  men  of  Grand  Prairie  soon  learned  to  iden- 
tify the  days  on  which  the  club  meetings  fell  by  the 
impaired  appetites  their  wives  showed  at  the  supper 
table,  and  the  louder  tones  in  which  they  talked  all 
the  evening.  Ultimately,  when  the  euchre  club  had 
evolved  into  the  higher  stage  of  the  whist  club,  the 
men  became  expert  enough  to  tell,  by  the  absence 
of  the  vocal  phenomenon  already  noted,  the  days 
on  which  the  card  tournaments  were  held. 

When  Emily  Harkness  came  home  from  the 
Eastern  college  where  she  had  taken  a  bachelor's 
degree,  it  was  thought  that  she  would  be  a  decided 
acquisition  to  society,  a  fact  that  was  duly  ex- 
ploited in  the  Grand  Prairie  newspapers.  The 
young  men  of  the  town  at  once  began  to  call,  but 
when  they  found  that  she  did  not  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  those  little  personalities  which  formed  the 
sinew  of  what  they  called  their  conversation,  and 
when  they  learned  that  she  would  not  endure  the 
familiarity  that  the  other  girls  of  the  town  indulged 
them  in,  they  began  one  by  one  to  fail  in  these  well- 
meant  attentions.  Several  of  them,  out  of  a  devo- 
tion to  the  spirit  of  social  duty,  tried  for  a  while  to 


30  The  i3th  District 

cultivate,  or  at  the  least  to  assume,  a  literary  taste 
that  would  admit  them  to  her  confidence.  But  their 
reading  had  been  limited  to  the  Chicago  Sunday 
newspapers,  the  works  of  the  Duchess  and  to  the 
most  widely  advertised  novels  of  the  swashbuckler 
school,  and  they  could  only  stare  vacantly  when 
she  soared  into  the  rarer  altitudes  of  the  culture 
she  had  acquired  at  college,  where  she  had  had 
a  course  of  Browning  lectures  and  out  of  a  superfi- 
cial tutoring  in  art  had  espoused  with  enthusiasm 
the  then  prospering  cause  of  Realism. 

Failing  in  literature,  a  few  of  the  more  determined 
of  these  youths  essayed  music,  but  when  she  played 
for  them  Chopin's  nocturnes  and  asked  if  they  liked 
Brahms,  whose  name  they  could  never  learn  to  pro- 
nounce, they  gave  her  up,  and  fled  with  relief  to 
the  banjo,  the  mandolin,  and  the  coon  songs  that 
echoed  not  inharmoniously  on  summer  nights 
along  the  borders  of  Silver  Lake,  as  they  called 
the  muddy  pond  where  the  aquatic  needs  of  Grand 
Prairie  society  are  appeased.  Emily  could  not 
follow  them  thither,  for  she  would  not  consent  to 
buggy  rides,  even  on  moonlight  nights.  And  so 
the  young  men  of  Grand  Prairie  voted  her  "stuck 
up,"  and  to  themselves  justified  their  verdict  by  the 
fact  that  she  made  them  by  some  silent  spiritual 
coercion  call  her  Miss  Harkness  instead  of  Em, 
or  Emily  at  least. 

As  for  the  clubs,  she  continued  to  attend  them 
occasionally,  for  she  was  needed  to  prepare  papers 
on  literary  topics  for  the  federated  meetings  held 
monthly  in  the  Presbyterian  church.    The  matrons 


On  the  Stump  31 

of  the  town  would  listen  to  her  with  the  folds  in 
their  chins  multiplying  as  their  faces  lengthened 
and  their  bodies  yielded  to  the  cushioned  pews  of 
the  warm  tabernacle,  but  however  conscientiously 
they  tried  to  follow  her,  their  winks  would  develop 
into  nods,  and  they  would  fall  asleep.  At  the  con- 
clusion of  her  papers,  of  course,  they  gave  Emily 
their  gloved  hands  in  congratulation,  but  the  gulf 
between  them  yawned  wider  and  wider,  until  Emily 
became  a  mere  intellectual  rather  than  a  human 
personality. 

Thus  left  to  herself,  Emily  seemed  to  be  doomed 
to  a  life  in  which  she  would  never  have  opportunity 
for  the  development  of  her  talents.  She  had 
brought  away  from  college  many  exalted  purposes^ 
and  she  meant  to  keep  these  purposes  high,  but 
at  times  she  despaired  of  ever  having  the  chance 
to  put  her  acquirements  to  what  her  father  would 
have  called  practical  use.  She  read  much,  for  she 
had  much  leisure,  and  kept  up  at  first  a  prodigious 
correspondence,  but  gradually  those  friendships 
which  in  the  flush  of  exuberant  youth  had  been 
destined  for  immortality,  declined  and  faded  as 
such  things  do  fade  in  our  lives,  and  soon  ceased 
altogether.  She  had  tried  writing,  and  sent  two 
or  three  manuscripts  away  to  the  magazines,  but 
they  were  returned  so  promptly  that  her  jocular 
father  said  the  editors  doubtless  had  an  arrange- 
ment with  the  postmaster  to  return  all  such  sus- 
picious-looking parcels  to  the  senders. 

Then  in  that  period  which  brought  the  cus- 
tomary desire  to  earn  her  own  money,  she  pro- 


32  The  13th   District 

posed  giving  music  lessons,  but  her  father,  in  the 
social  pride  he  possessed,  without  any  social  in- 
clinations, at  once  vetoed  the  proposal. 

It  was  in  these  changing,  unquiet  moods  that 
"'she  met  Garwood.  She  had  found  that  about  the 
only  practical  outlet  for  the  aspirations  of  women, 
in  her  time  and  country,  was  in  the  direction  of 
charitable  work.  An  unusually  severe  winter  in 
Grand  Prairie  had  made  many  opportunities  for 
efforts  of  this  nature,  and  she  found  a  special  pleas- 
ure in  going  about  in  the  poorer  quarter  which  lay 
beyond  Railroad  Avenue,  hardly  a  block  from  the 
respectable  homes  of  the  well-to-do.  The  pleasure 
she  derived  from  this  new  work  was  largely  sub- 
jective; perhaps,  as  it  is  likely  to  do,  it  ministered 
to  her  spiritual  vanity  as  much  as  to  anything  else. 
5  In  the  end,  her  emotional  appreciation  of  the  pic- 
I  turesque  in  poverty  led  her  into  indiscriminate 
■  giving.  This  new  phase  of  her  development  did 
not  increase  her  favor  in  the  eyes  of  her  neighbors. 
They  resented  her  activity  as  foolish  and  meddle- 
some; the  poor — to  whom,  in  the  delusion  com- 
mon to  all  the  thoughtless  rich,  they  gladly  attrib- 
uted unbounded  good  health — could  get  along  all 
right,  they  said,  if  they  would  only  work  and  save 
their  money;  or,  as  they  preferred  to  express  it, 
be  industrious  and  frugal. 

One  of  the  families  Emily  visited  had  been  fru- 
gal so  long  that  it  had  lost  the  strength  to  be  indus- 
trious. It  was  a  German  family  that  had  come 
from  the  province  of  Pomerania,  and  the  yellow 
hair   of   the    mother    framed    a    face   that   Emily 


On  the  Stump  33 

loved  to  picture  in  its  girlish  prettiness  among 
the  fields  of  her  native  land  and  happier  child- 
hood. Her  husband  was  a  man  with  a  delicious 
dialectal  speech,  and  he  could  tell  famous  tales 
of  his  service  in  the  German  army.  He  had 
worked  in  the  "Boakeye  Bre'erie,"  as  he  called  the 
Buckeye  Brewery,  and  for  some  reason  that  Emily 
never  properly  grasped  had  lost  his  job.  When 
she  discovered  the  family  they  were  patiently  liv- 
ing on  the  remnant  of  a  side  of  pork  the  man  had 
bought  with  his  last  money. 

Emily  had  pictured  herself  meeting,  in  the  course 
of  her  charitable  work,  some  interesting  young 
doctor,  with  a  Van  Dyck  beard;  but  all  the  doctors 
in  Grand  Prairie,  like  most  of  the  other  workers  in 
that  depleted  vineyard,  were  old  men;  she  met 
instead^  what  is  universal,  a  young  lawyer. 

Jake  Reinhardt,  who  never  had  money  to  buy 
bread  or  meat,  seemed  always  able  to  procure  beer 
and  tobacco,  an  incongruity  Emily  could  not  under- 
stand at  first.  She  learned  afterwards  that  Jake 
knew  a  saloon-keeper  who  had  a  mixture  of  kind- 
heartedness  and  long-headedness,  the  first  of  which 
led  him  to  trust  Reinhardt  for  the  beer  and  to- 
bacco, while  the  second  justified  the  course  because 
Reinhardt's  presence  .at  his  bar  made  one  consumer 
more  when  a  round  of  drinks  was  ordered  for  the 
house.  Then,  one  day,  suddenly,  just  as  Emily 
thought  she  was  getting  the  family  on  its  feet,  Rein- 
hardt felled  a  man  in  the  saloon  with  a  blow  of  a 
'billiard  cue,  and  was  thrown  into  jail  on  a  charge 
of  assault  with  intent  to  kill.    His  victim  was  lying 


34  The  13th   District 

in  a  precarious  state;  possibly  he  might  die;  Rein- 
hardt  might  yet  be  held  to  answer  to  a  charge  of 
murder. 

Emily  found  Mrs,  Reinhardt  with  a  face  bloated 
by  tears,  staring  in  mute  anguish  at  this  new  calam- 
ity she  could  not  comprehend.  As  Emily's  first 
thought  in  the  former  difficulties  had  been  a  doc- 
tor, now  her  first  thought  was  a  lawyer;  but  it 
seemed  that  one  had  already  appeared,  and  Mrs. 
Reinhardt  in  her  broken  speech  extolled  him  as 
a  ministering  angel.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  taken 
up  the  cause  out  of  pity  for  Reinhardt's  defenseless 
condition,  perhaps  in  a  belief  in  his  moral  inno- 
cence, which  the  blundering  police  could  not  or 
would  not  admit.  As  the  afifair  turned  out,  Emily's 
sympathies  proved  to  have  been  as  fully  justified  as 
the  young  lawyer's,  and  what  she  then  observed  of 
the  practical  administration  of  justice  in  criminal 
courts  only  confirmed  many  of  the  sociological 
heresies  that  then  were  sprouting  in  her  mind, 
quite  as  much,  indeed,  to  her  own  distress  as  to  her 
father's. 

Emily  gave  Mrs.  Reinhardt  carte  blanche  in  the 
matter  of  spending  money  to  clear  her  husband, 
and  even  ofifered  to  pay  the  young  lawyer's  fee. 
When  he  refused,  the  lofty  heroism  of  his  act,  as 
she  called  it,  opened  the  way  for  a  sympathy  be- 
tween them,  and  by  the  time  Garwood  acquitted 
his  client,  he  and  Emily  were  friends. 

Garwood's  social  traditions  were  far  removed 
from  those  of  Emily;  and  it  was  only  in  Railroad 
Avenue,  and  never  in  Sangamon,  that  they  could 


On  the  Stump  35 

have  met  at  all,  Garwood  had  never  gone  into 
society  in  Grand  Prairie;  his  mother  was  a  Meth- 
odist, and  to  go  into  society  it  was  necessary  to 
be  an  Episcopalian,  or  at  least  a  Presbyterian.  He 
would  have  betrayed  his  training  in  any  social 
emergency  and  he  had  to  hide  his  ignorance  of  con- 
ventionalities behind  a  native  diffidence,  which  in 
a  young  man  of  his  solemnity  happily  passed  for 
dignity. 

But  he  came  into  Emily's  life  at  the  very  time 
when  it  was  ready  to  receive  impressions  from 
a  more  masterful  mind.  In  his  young  dream  of 
a  career,  in  that  enthusiasm  for  humanity  which 
springs  in  most  men  of  the  liberal  professions  with 
the  shock  of  their  first  impact  with  a  hard,  material 
age,  and  develops  until  the  age  taints  them  with 
its  sordidness,  Garwood  had  enlisted  in  the  world- 
old  fight  for  equality  and  democracy.  His  first  vic- 
tory was  for  himself,  and  he  was  elected  to  the 
Legislature.  Thereafter,  he  dreamed  of  becoming 
some  day  a  great  commoner^  and  so  was  in  danger 
of  turning  out  a  demagogue. 

While  he  had  not  read  as  widely  as  Emily  he 
had  thought  a  great  deal  more,  and  the  two  young 
persons  were  delighted  as  they  discovered  new 
points  at  which,  to  their  own  satisfaction,  they  sup- 
plemented each  other  perfectly.  Emily  found  in 
Garwood  the  only  worthy  intellectuality  that  the 
youth  of  Grand  Prairie  offered,  and  though,  after 
a  certain  intimacy  had  been  established  by  his  first 
few  awkward  calls,  he  showed  as  much  contempt 
as  ever  for  the  more  aristocratic  environment  of  the 


36  The  13  th   District 

girl,  this  only  flattered  her,  and  she  noted  with  the 
feminine  pride  and  pleasure  in  little  conquests,  that 
as  he  grew  accustomed  to  the  life  his  constraint 
gave  way  to  a  liking  for  its  luxury. 

She  adopted  him,  with  a  young  girl's  love  of  a 
protege;  gave  him  books  to  read  and  was  pleased 
rather  than  displeased  at  the  gossip  their  relations 
excited  before  that  first  winter  ended  and  the  spring 
took  from  them  the  excuse  their  charitable  work  had 
given  for  being  much  in  each  other's  society. 
Thereafter  they  frankly  dispensed  with  this  bond 
and  substituted  one  of  afifection  pure  and  simple. 
This  propinquity  naturally  ended  in  love,  and  the 
club  women  of  the  town  were  doubtless  justified  in 
their  new  and  keenly  relished  understanding  that 
Emily  had  more  than  the  mere  patroness's  interest 
in  the  career  of  this  young  man.  Most  of  them  said 
she  was  demeaning  herself,  but  that  only  added  to 
their  joy. 


IV 


RANKIN  was  not  only  chairman  of  the  Polk 
County  central  committee,  a  position  he  had 
held  for  years,  but  he  was  also  chairman  of 
the  Congressional  committee.  It  was,  therefore,  with 
an  authority  no  one  cared  to  question  that,  early  in 
September,  he  engaged  two  rooms  in  the  Law- 
rence Block  for  the  county  committee's  headquar- 
ters, though  he  preferred  to  pitch  his  own  in  Gar- 
wood's law  office,  which  was  on  the  same  floor. 
Then  he  swung  a  banner  across  the  street  and  be- 
gan to  menace  Garwood's  opponent  with  chal- 
lenges for  joint  debates.  To  Grand  Prairie  this 
expressed  the  formal  opening  of  the  campaign,  but 
Garwood  already  had  been  two  weeks  away  from 
home,  speaking  twice  daily  in  Piatt  and  DeWitt 
Counties,  under  the  skies  in  the  afternoon,  under 
the  stars  by  night,  and  had  returned  for  a  day  be- 
fore going  down  into  Moultrie.  The  office  had 
been  crowded  all  day  and  it  was  late  in  the  after- 
noon before  he  had  a  chance  to  write  the  letters 
that  needed  his  attention.  He  had  just  dismissed, 
rather  ungraciously,  a  delegation  of  negroes — for 
Rankin  never  had  any  patience  with  negro  delega- 
tions— and  had  begun  dictating  to  the  typewriter, 
when  another  caller  came  demanding  a  personal  in- 
terview. 
The  caller  was  a  httle  man,  who  walked  with 
Z7 


38  The  13th   District 

stooped  shoulders,  swung  a  slender  stick  energeti- 
cally as  he  advanced,  and  continued  to  twist  it 
nervously  when  he  had  come.  His  head  was  but 
thinly  covered  with  lank,  moist  hair,  as  was  shown 
when  he  pushed  back  the  sun-burned  straw  hat  he 
wore.  This  moisture  seemed  to  be  general  in  his 
whole  system.  It  was  apparent  in  the  perspiring 
hand  he  gave  to  Garwood;  it  affected  the  short 
mustache,  dyed  a  dull,  lifeless  black,  at  which  he 
scratched  with  a  black-edged  finger  nail  as  he 
talked,  when  he  was  not  plucking  at  the  few  hairs 
that  strayed  on  his  chin.  This  moisture  showed 
again  in  his  blue  eyes,  from  which  it  had  almost 
washed  the  color.  After  he  had  been  shut  in  the 
room  with  Garwood  for  half  an  hour,  the  air  was 
laden  with  alcoholic  fumes,  which,  exuding  from 
his  whole  body,  may  have  .accounted  for  his  moist 
personality.  While  he  talked  he  chewed  and  puffed 
a  glossy  yellow  cigar. 

This  man  was  Freeman  H.  Pusey,  and  he  was 
publisher,  editor,  reporter,  all  in  one,  of  the  Grand 
Prairie  Evening  Nezvs.    Plis  journal  was  a  small  one 
of  four  pages,  for  the  most  part  given  over  to  boil- 
er-plate matter,  but  it  carried  a  column  of  "locals," 
a  portentous  editorial  page,  and  took  on  a  happy, 
almost  gala  expression  whenever  it  could  exploit, 
under  the  heavy  ragged  type  in  which  its  headlines 
were  set,  some  scandal  that  would  shock  Grand 
Y  Prairie,    In  politics  the  Nezvs  claimed  to  be  inde- 
/  pendent,  which  meant  that  it  leaned  far  to  one  side 
Hn  one  campaign,  and  as  far  to  the  other  in  the  next ; 
indeed,  it  sometimes  held  these  two  extreme  posi- 


On  the  Stump  39 

tions  in  the  same  campaign,  and  found  no  difficulty 
in  vindicating  its  policy. 

"I  came  to  see  you,  Mr.  Garwood,  in  regard  to  a 
little  political  matter,"  Pusey  began, 

"Well?"  said  Garwood,  not  too  cordially. 

"Of  course  you  know  that  the  Nezus  is  the  ac- 
cepted organ  of  the  people,  that  is,  the  great  mass 
of  the  common  people  here  in  Grand  Prairie  and, — 
ah — I  might  say  in  Polk  County." 

"So  Pve  heard,"  said  Garwood. 

"Thus  far,  you  may  have  noticed,  we  have  been 
neutral,  that  is,  I  should  say,  independent,  as  be- 
tween you  and  Judge  Bromley." 

Garwood  was  looking  out  of  his  window  down 
into  the  court  house  square,  where  the  winds 
played  with  the  rubbish  that  always  litters  the 
streets  of  Grand  Prairie.  He  made  no  reply,  and 
Pusey  eyed  him  out  of  his  swimming  little  eyes. 

"Yes,"  continued  Pusey,  pinching  his  chin,  "we 
have  waited  to  see  how  events  would  shape  them- 
selves before — ah — " 

Garwood  grunted,  and  Pusey  went  on: 

"Yes — ah — I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
perhaps  our  best  course  would  be  to  support  you, 
inasmuch  as  you're  our  fellow  townsman — and  it 
occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  a  write-up  would  do 
you  some  good,  that  is,  with  the  great  mass  of  the 
common  people,  the  laboring  people  generally,  you 
understand." 

"I  should  be  obliged  to  you,  of  course,"  said  Gar- 
wood. 

"H-m-m,  yes,"  answered  Pusey,  "I  presume  so. 


1 


40  The  13th   District 

But — if  I — that  is,  we,  were  to  give  you  such  a 
write-up  and  run  your  cut,  you  would^  I  presume, 
be  ready  to  take  twenty  or  thirty  thousand  copies 
for  distribution?" 

"What  would  it  cost?"  said  Garwood. 

"Well — at  two  cents  a  copy — you  can — " 

"I  see,"  said  Garwood,  "for  your  support  you 
would  expect  about  five  hundred  dollars." 

"I  did  not  put  it  in  that  light,"  said  Pusey,  spit- 
ting, and  trying  to  assume  a  dignity. 

"No,  but  I—" 

"You  can  see,  of  course,  Mr.  Garwood — a  man 
of  your  experience  can  readily  see,  that  a  paper  like 
the  News  can  hardly  afiford  to  give  up  its  valuable 
space  to  that  which  is  not  strictly  news  matter  with- 
out some  hope  of  compensation," 

"I  see,"  said  Garwood,  "but  to  be  frank  with  you, 
Pusey,"  he  turned  and  looked  straight  into  the  little 
man's  watery  eyes,  "I  can't  afford  it.  This  cam- 
paign, into  which  I  sometimes  wish  I  hadn't  gone, 
has  proved  expensive^  and  my  practice  has  suffered, 
so  that  I  need  all  the  money  at  my  command  for 
more  immediate  and  pressing  expenses." 

"You  do  not  consider  this  immediate  and  press- 
ing then?"  said  Pusey. 

"Well,  not  exactly,"  Garwood  replied.  "Would 
you?" 

Pusey  was  silent  for  a  while.  When  he  spoke  he 
said: 

"There  are  certain  passages  in  your  life,  Mr.  Gar- 
wood, which  just  now — " 

Garwood  glared  at  Pusey. 


On  the  Stump  41 

"So  that's  the  game,  is  it?"  he  said.  His  tone 
was  low,  for  he  was  calculating  carefully  the  part 
he  had  to  play. 

The  little  man  was  revolving  his  straw  hat  on 
the  head  of  his  stick,  and  he  wore  a  grin  about  his 
moist  mouth.  GarAvood  had  mastered  his  anger, 
but  Pusey  had  to  wait  some  time  before  he  spoke. 
Presently  he  did  so. 

'Til  tell  you,  Pusey,"  he  said,  "you  know  Jim 
Rankin  is  running  my  campaign,  and  I  have  prom- 
ised him  not  to  take  any  steps  without  consulting 
him.  We've  had  all  sorts  of  callers  here,  white  and 
black,  cranks,  mind  readers,  palmists,  faith  curists 
and  men  with  votes  in  their  vest  pockets,  and  Pve 
adopted  the  rule  of  turning  over  to  him  every  one 
who  comes,  I'll  speak  to  him  about  your  case^  and 
you  may  call  around  to-morrow  and  see  him." 

When  Pusey  had  gone,  Garwood  burst  upon 
Rankin,  his  face  white  with  anger. 

"The  damned  little  blackmailing — " 

"What'n  hell's  the  matter?"  asked  Rankin,  let- 
ting his  feet  fall  from  the  desk. 

Garwood,  digging  his  clenched  fists  into  his 
trousers'  pockets,  paced  the  floor,  swearing  angrily. 

"Free  Pusey's  been  here,"  he  said. 

"What'd  he  want?" 

"Stuff." 

"Of  course— but  what  for?" 

"For  keeping  still,  what'd  you  suppose?" 

"Does  he  know  anything?" 

Garwood  paused  by  the  window,  still  breathing 
hard. 


42  The  I  3  th   District 

"Well,"  he  said  presently,  "he  claims  to." 

Rankin  drew  himself  upright  with  the  difficulty 
of  a  fat  man,  and  leaned  towards  Garwood, 

"Legislature?"  he  asked. 

Garwood  gave  an  impatient  fling  of  his  head. 
He  turned  then,  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  desk,  and 
sat  down,  facing  Rankin.    But  Rankin  spoke  first. 

"Some  more  of  that  newspaper  rot  'bout  the 
Ford  bill?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Garwood  wearily.  "I 
reckon  I'll  never  hear  the  last  of  that." 

"Oh,  well,"  Rankin  said,  "to  hell  with  it.  Let 
him  print  it!" 

"But  damn  it,"  Garwood  went  on,  "it's  serious 
with  me — just  now — at  any  rate." 

"Aw,  cheer  up,"  said  Rankin,  "that  won't  cut  any 
figure  with  you — it  won't  lose  a  vote." 

"No,  but  it  may  lose  me  something  else — "  Gar- 
wood spoke  with  a  significance  that  Rankin  could 
not  instantly  appreciate.  "Of  course,"  Garwood 
continued  "there  was  nothing  in  it,  but  then — you 
know,  a  woman — " 

The  big  fellow  vented  a  little  whistle,  and  then 
kept  his  lips  puckered  up  to  aid  his  thought. 

"What  can  we  do?"  said  Garwood,  who  could 
not  then,  in  such  a  mood,  endure  the  delay  of  si- 
lence. 

"Well,"    said    Rankin,    "let  me    think.     I  can't 

straighten  it  out  all  at  once.     It  'as  al'ays  hard 

fer  me  to  mix  politics  and  business,  or  politics  and 

r   religion,  or  politics  and — "    He  was  a  sentimental 

V    man  who  feared  to  show  his  sentiment,  and  he  did 


On  the  Stump  43 

not  speak  the  tender  word  of  many  meanings.  ButJ 
under  the  influence  of  the  twilight,  perhaps  because 
they  could  not  see  each  other's  face,  they  talked 
confidentially,  until  the  gloom  of  evening  was  ex- 
panding- in  the  room.  Then  Rankin  took  out  his 
watch  and  tried  to  read  its  dial. 

"Gosh!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  must  be  gettin'  home 
— I'll  try  to  fix  it  up  somehow,  Jerry.  Don't  worry 
— ^just  leave  it  to  me." 

"If  you  think  we  ought  to  do  it,  Jim,"  Garwood 
said,  "I  might  borrow  the — " 

"Not  a  red  cent  for  that  pirate!"  exclaimed  Ran- 
kin, smiting  the  desk  with  his  fist.  "We'll  need 
all  the  money  we  can  get  in  the  campaign.  Be- 
sides, he  ain't  honest  enough  to  stay  bought." 

Though  Rankin  had  told  him  not  to  worry,  Gar- 
wood was  depressed  and  troubled,  and  longed  for 
sympathy.  In  the  evening,  when  he  found  time  to 
go  to  Emily,  Pusey  was  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"You're  tired,  of  course,"  said  Emily,  "and  how 
hoarse." 

"It's  the  speaking,  I  reckon,"  said  Garwood.  "I 
campaigned  all  week  with  old  General  Stager;  we 
spoke  outdoors  to  acres  of  people.  How  those  old- 
timers  stand  it  I  don't  know.  They  can  blow  like 
steam  whistles  day  and  night.  When  I  left  the  old 
gentleman  last  night  at  Mt.  Pulaski,  he  was  as  fresh 
as  a  daisy — said  he  liked  a  little  taste  of  the  stump 
now  and  then — but  that,  of  course,  it  wasn't  any- 
thing to  what  it  used  to  be." 
Emily  laughed  a  little. 
"Won't  you  have  some  meetings  indoors?" 


44  The  13th   District 

"Oh,  after  while — but  we  have  to  get  the  crowds 
where  we  can  find  them,  and  the  farmers  are  all 
at  the  county  fairs  nowadays,  I'll  be  glad  when 
it's  over.    The  strain  is  pulling  me  down," 

"Aren't  you  well?"  she  asked  with  a  woman's 
constant  concern, 

"Oh,  yes,  well  enough;  of  course  I  have  a  cold 
all  the  time,  a  candidate  has  to  have  that,  and  a 
sore  throat,  but  you  have  to  smile,  and  look  pleas- 
ant, and  shake  hands,  and  be  careful  what  you  say. 
I'd  give  anything  to  be  a  free  man  once  more,  to 
be  able  to  talk  without  weighing  every  word,  with- 
out having  to  watch  it  as  if  I  were  drawing  an  in- 
dictment, I'd  give  anything  to  indulge  one  good 
fit  of  anger," 

"Can't  you — just  get  mad  at  me?" 

Garwood  laughed  fondly.  "Well,"  he  went  on, 
"it's  good  to  come  here  and  relax  and  speak  my 
mind.  I  did  get  mad  to-day  though,  and  threaten 
to  throw  a  man  out  of  my  office  window."  His 
thought  would  revert  to  that  subject. 

"Who?"  she  asked,  in  alarm. 

"Oh,  that  little  Free  Pusey." 

"What  has  he  done?" 

"He  wanted  me  to  give  him  money  for  his  sup- 
port." 

"Well,  I  don't  blame  you.  I  can  understand  your 
righteous  indignation,  Jerome," 

Garwood  felt  the  blood  tinge  his  cheeks. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  that  way,  Emily." 

"W'y,  why?" 

"Because  you  don't  know  how  sordid  politics  are 


On  the  Stump  45 

is — which  is  it?  I'd  probably  have  given  it  to 
him,  only  I  didn't  have  it;  the  righteously  indig- 
nant was  the  only  attitude  left." 

"I  don't  hke  to  hear  you  talk  like  that,  Jerome. 
I  don't  like  to  see  you  in  that  cynical  mood.  It 
wasn't  an  attitude,  it  was  your  real  nature  speak- 
ing." 

"Well,  a  man  must  keep  his  real  nature  in  sub- 
jection in  politics." 

"Please  don't,  Jerome;  you  mustn't  keep  your 
real  nature  in  subjection  in  poHtics.  We  need  just 
such  men  as  you  in  our  public  life." 

They  were  silent  then. 

"Jerome,"  the  girl  said  later,  "do  you  really  need 
money  so  badly?" 

"Well,  it  costs,  you  know." 

"Why  don't  you  speak  to  father — I  know  he'd 
be  glad  to  help  you.  He  is  very  anxious  to  see 
you  succeed,  you  know — or  if  you  think  that  Mr. 
Pusey  can  harm  you,  why  can't  you  let  father  speak 
to  him?  Father  once  did  him  some  favor — don't 
you  remember  those  sickening,  fulsome  articles  he 
wrote?" 

Garwood  gasped  at  the  thought  of  Emily's  father 
penetrating  that  situation. 

"Never  that!"  he  said,  bringing  his  fist  down  on 
his  knee,  "Don't  you  ever  suggest  such  a  thing, 
Emily,  do  you  hear?"  He  turned  and  his  eyes 
glowed  as  he  looked  at  her.  The  girl  laughed  a 
little  laugh  of  pride  in  him, 

"I'm  afraid,  Jerome,"  she  began  in  a  playful  way, 
"that    you    don't    understand    politics    very    well 


46  The  13  th   District 

yourself."  And  then  she  became  serious,  and 
sighed. 

"But  how  noble  you  are!  And  how  high  mind- 
ed!   And  how  I  love  you  for  it!" 

They  sat  there  a  long  while  after  that,  in  the 
darkness.    But  they  did  not  talk  politics  any  more. 


V 


WHEN  the  Alton's  early  train  drew  out  of 
the  Canal  Street  station  that  morning,  the 
last  coach  had  its  curtains  drawn,  with  a 
touch  of  royal  mystery.  Though  its  polished  panels 
were  grimed  from  a  long  journey,  though  its  roof 
lay  deep  in  cinders,  and  though  its  gilt  lettering  was 
tarnished,  still,  as  it  moved  onward  with  heavy  dig- 
nity, it  was  plainly  no  ordinary  car,  for  it  rolled  ma- 
jestically at  the  end  of  that  long  train  like  some  ship, 
to  which  clung  the  sentimental  interest  of  a  stormy/ 
voyage.  As  it  passed,  yardmen  in  blue  overalls 
straightened  their  backs  painfully  and  scrutinized 
it  with'  professional  eye,  sometimes  they  swung 
their  caps;  laborers,  men  and  women,  on  their 
morning  way  to  work,  halted  by  the  crossing-gates 
and  united  in  a  cheer,  their  futile  little  celebration 
being  dissipated  by  the  clamor  of  the  alarm  bells, 
as  the  train  whirled  by  in  its  cloud  of  dust,  and  the 
gates  lifted  to  let  the  flood-tide  of  city  life  set  in 
again  for  the  day's  work. 

The  fireman  in  the  engine  cab  sat  erect  as  he 
clanged  his  brass  bell;  the  engineer,  knitting  his 
brow  as  he  studied  his  watch,  stretched  his  hand 
to  the  throttle  with  a  touch  as  delicate  as  a  tele- 
grapher's. Within  the  train,  the  division  superin- 
tendent whispered  to  the  conductor.  Plainly,  it 
was  no  ordinary  car. 

47 


48  The  13  th   District 

It  was  bearing  a  candidate  for  the  presidency, 
on  his  way  west,  swinging  around  the  circle,  as  our 
phrase  has  been  ever  since  Andrew  Johnson  made 
the  first  presidential  stumping  tour. 

His  itinerary  had  been  so  arranged  as  to  give 
him  an  hour  in  Lincoln  that  afternoon.  General 
Stager  was  to  be  there  also  and  to  speak  before  the 
presidential  candidate  arrived.  The  old  wheel- 
horse's  part  was  to  hold  the  crowd,  and  he  was  well 
cast,  for  he  could  talk  on  indefinitely,  and  yet  round 
off  his  speech  with  an  eloquent  peroration  at  any 
moment  and  seem  never  to  suffer  any  ill  effects, 
either  as  to  himself  or  to  his  speech.  Then  in  the 
evening  Garwood  was  to  speak.  He  had  looked 
forward  to  the  day  with  eagerness,  anticipating 
fondly  his  meeting  with  the  great  man  who,  as  Gen- 
eral Stager  would  put  it,  was  running  for  the  high- 
est office  within  the  gift  of  the  American  people. 

He  had  gone  up  to  Chicago  with  Rankin  the 
night  before,  and  when  the  private  car  was 
switched  over  from  the  Pennsylvania  in  the  morn- 
ing, they  boarded  it  with  one  or  two  members  of 
the  state  executive  committee,  and  the  member 
of  the  national  committee  for  Illinois. 

The  great  man  slept  late,  as  great  men  may, 
yielding  to  the  conceit  that  their  labors  are  heavier 
than  those  of  common  men,  and  as  Garwood  and 
Rankin  sat  in  the  forward  compartment  and  whis- 
pered to  each  other,  Rankin  noted  his  impression 
by  saying: 

"The  old  man  takes  it  easy,  don't  he?" 

Something  of  this  impatience  was  expressed  by 


On  the  Stump  49 

the  cries  of  the  crowd  that  gathered  in  the  station 
at  Joliet,  after  the  train  had  rolled  by  the  high  stone 
walls  of  the  penitentiary,  and  Garwood,  growing 
more  accustomed  to  his  position,  allowed  himself 
to  enjoy,  as  he  saw  men  peering  curiously  in  at 
him,  the  distinction  a  man  feels  in  riding  in  a 
private  car. 

But  the  day  was  fully  awake  now,  and  the  na- 
tional excitement  that  for  a  week  had  found  its 
dynamic  center  in  that  car,  began  to  impress  itself 
upon  its  occupants;  the  newspaper  correspondents 
who  traveled  with  the  candidate  began  to  make 
notes  now  and  then  after  they  had  learned  the  name 
of  the  town  they  were  passing;  white  jacketed 
darkies  began  to  slip  about  in  their  morning  work, 
and  at  last  the  candidate  himself  came  into  the 
salon,  clean  and  fresh,  blinking  his  eyes  in  the  sun, 
as  he  smiled  in  a  courtly  way  and  said,  as  if  they 
•were  members  of  his  suite  traveling  with  a  king: 

"Gentlemen,  good  morning." 

And  then  he  looked  about  him  as  if  he  had  lost 
something. 

"Is  the  colonel  up  yet?"  he  asked. 

His  secretary  at  that  instant  appeared,  pursued 
by  a  black  porter  whisking  at  his  blue  clothes  with 
a  long,  thin  broom. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "there  you  are.  Did  you  rest 
well?" 

"Fairly,"  said  the  colonel.     "Papers  come  yet?" 

Before  the  candidate  could  reply,  the  chairman 
of  the  state  central  committee  had  taken  Garwood 


50  The  13  th   District 

by  the  sleeve  and  drawn  him  up  before  the  candi- 
date. 

"This  is  Mr.  Garwood,  our  candidate  for  Con- 
gress in  the  Thirteenth  District." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Garwood,"  the  great  man  said,  "very 
glad  to  meet  you,  I'm  sure.  You  had  rather  a 
spirited  contest  in  your  district,  did  you  not?" 

Garwood  smiled  at  the  memory  of  it.  He  was 
about  to  reply  when  the  colonel,  who  had  gone  for 
the  train  boy,  returned  with  a  bundle  of  newspapers 
that  smelt  pleasantly  of  the  printer's  ink,  and  gave 
them  all,  save  the  one  he  had  opened  for  himself, 
to  the  candidate.  The  candidate  took  them  in  his 
delicate  hands,  lifted  his  glasses,  opened  one  of 
the  papers,  and  as  he  did  so  observed,  his  eyes  run- 
ning up  and  down  the  columns: 

"Such  contests  are  always  healthful  indications, 
I  fancy." 

Garwood  hemmed  and  murmured  a  disappointed 
*'Yes."  The  great  man  was  slowly  sinking  into  a 
wicker  chair,  and  beginning  to  read  the  reports  of 
the  speeches  he  had  delivered  through  Indiana  and 
Ohio  the  day  before. 

The  whole  party  had  got  newspapers  of  the  news 
agent  and  had  settled  down  to  read  them.  The 
newspaper  men  had  bought  with  as  much  avidity 
as  the  rest,  and  were  trembling  with  the  mingled 
pain  and  pleasure  of  reading  their  own  stufif,  as^ 
with  a  contempt  perhaps  not  all  pretended,  they 
called  it. 

The  news  that  the  candidate  had  risen  spread 
through  the  train  by  some  mysterious  agency,  and 


On  the  Stump  51 

almost  before  he  had  finished  his  breakfast,  men 
began  to  venture  back  that  way  to  see  him.  He  re- 
ceived them  all  with  his  weary  smile,  shook  their 
hands,  and  thanked  them  for  whatever  it  was  he 
seemed  to  think  or  wished  them  to  think  they  were 
doing  for  him.  It  was  the  better  dressed  of  the 
passengers  in  the  forward  coaches  that  were  bold 
enough  to  enter  a  private  car  at  first,  but  as  the 
habit  grew  common,  men  from  the  day  coaches, 
and  at  last  the  farmers  from  the  smoking  car  who 
had  got  on  to  ride  short  distances  between  sta- 
tions, began  to  shamble  back.  One  of  them,  with 
his  clothes  and  hat  and  whiskers  all  sunburned  to 
a  neutral  shade  of  brown,  stood  in  an  awkward 
attitude  before  the  candidate  crushing  his  white 
slender  hand  in  his  own  harsh  palm,  and  pumped 
it  up  and  down,  stammering  through  his  tobacco 
that  he  had  been  voting  the  straight  ticket  for  fifty 
years,  and  when  the  great  man  said  he  hoped  that 
he  would  live  to  vote  it  for  fifty  years  more,  the 
little  knot  of  admiring  men  laughed  with  exuberant 
mirth  at  the  joke. 

As  the  news  that  the  candidate  had  risen  spread 
through  the  train,  so  it  sped  onward  before  the 
train,  and  now  as  they  reached  and  impatiently 
halted  at  little  towns  along  the  road,  people  were 
gathered  at  the  stations,  stretching  their  necks,  and 
hastily  glancing  at  all  the  windows  of  the  train  to 
catch  a  ghmpse  of  the  man  who  might  soon  be  their 
president. 

At  each  stop  the  candidate  stepped  out  upon 
the  platform,  his  stenographer  following  him  with  a 


52  The  13  th   District 

note  book,  spoke  a  few  words  of  greeting,  and 
dropped  a  politic  remark  that  had  the  epigram- 
matic ring  of  a  political  axiom. 

Garwood  was  disappointed  in  not  being  called 
on  to  speak  himself,  and  he  had  been  disappoint- 
ed, too,  in  not  having  the  conversation  with  his 
great  leader  he  had  anticipated.  He  was  beginning 
to  realize  the  relativity  of  things,  whereby  a  candi- 
date for  Congress  is  only  great  when  he  is  drink- 
ing with  a  candidate  for  supervisor  at  some  country 
bar,  but  when  he  is  riding  in  a  private  car  with  a 
candidate  for  president  he  is  small  indeed,  so  small 
that  he  is  not  noticed  in  the  press  despatches,  as 
Garwood  was  to  learn  when  he  faithfully  read  all 
the  city  papers  the  next  day. 

But  down  below  Bloomington  the  great  man 
gladdened  him  by  taking  a  seat  beside  him,  and 
beginning  to  ask  questions,  which  is  sometimes  the 
mark  of  a  great  man. 

"Let  m-e  see,  you  reside  in  Grand  Prairie,  do  you 
not,  Mr.  Garwood?  What  is  the  condition  of  our 
party  over  there  just  now?" 

Garwood  told  him  it  was  very  good;  he  thought 
there  was  much  enthusiasm. 

The  great  man  said  that  he  had  discovered  such 
conditions  to  be  generally  indicated. 

"It  Avill  be  only  necessary  to  crystallize  that  en- 
thusiasm in  the  ballot  box,"  he  continued,  with  his 
Latin  derivatives,  "for  us  to  win  a  splendid  victory. 
Your  organization  is  satisfactory,  is  it?" 

Again  Garwood  answered  "Yes." 

"Very  good,"  the  great  man  said.    "How  large 


On  the  Stump  53 

a  town  is  Lincoln — we  stop  there  this  afternoon, 
do  we  not,  Colonel?" 

The  colonel,  too,  said  "Yes." 

"Agricultural  community  principally,  I  suppose? 
Are  the  farmers  fairly  prosperous  in  the  county?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Garwood,  "they've  had  good 
crops  this  year." 

"Let  me  see,  General  Bancroft  used  to  represent 
your  district  in  Congress,  did  he  not?" 

"Yes,  sir — some  years  ago.  He's  dead  now, 
you  know." 

"Yes,  I  remember — I  must — ^let  me  see — I  was 
in  the  forty-third  Congress  with  him,  was  I  not, 
Colonel?" 

"The  forty-fourth,"  corrected  the  colonel. 

"To  be  sure,  the  forty-fourth.  He  was  a  vei*y 
fine  man.     I  formed  a  very  high  opinion  of  him." 

"Yes,  he  was  a  fine  man,"  said  Garwood.  "I  read 
law  in  his  office." 

"Did  you,  indeed?  He  was  a  very  good  lawyer, 
as  I  recall  him.  We  sat  on  the  judiciary  committee 
together.     Did  he  have  a  good  practice?" 

"Oh,  yes,  the  best  at  the  Grand  Prairie  bar.  He 
was  the  best  jury  lawyer  we  ever  had  there." 

"Yes,  he  was  a  good  speaker.  Was  the  breach 
in  the  party  created  by  his  peculiarly  strong  char- 
acter healed  at  his  death?" 

"Well,  it's  pretty  much  healed  now;  for  a  long 
time  it  bothered  us,  but  we  never  hear  of  it  any 
more." 

"Pretty  popular  with  the  people,  was  he?" 

"Very." 


54  The  13  th   District 

"I  would  presume  so."  The  great  man  closed 
his  eyes  as  if  shutting  in  some  impression. 

"Yes,"  Garwood  went  on,  "the  bare  mention  of 
his  name  will  set  them  wild  even  now." 

"Ah,  indeed,"  said  the  candidate.  "He  raised  a 
regiment  about  there,  did  he  not?" 

"Yes — the  old  ninety-third — the  Bloody  Ninety- 
third  they  called  it.  A  number  of  his  old  soldiers 
will  be  at  your  meeting  this  afternoon." 

The  candidate  reflected  that  most  communities 
Hke  to  think  that  their  regiments  have  been  known 
as  "the  Bloody,"  but  he  did  not  say  so  to  Gar- 
wood. 

The  train  sped  on,  then  Garwood  heard  it  stop, 
heard  the  cheers  and  cries  of  the  crowds  outside, 
heard  the  rich  voice  of  the  candidate  speaking,  heard 
the  restless  bell  as  the  train  moved  on  again  with 
quickly  accelerated  speed,  while  the  little  station 
and  the  crowd  and  the  two  shining  tracks  dissolved 
into  one  disappearing  point  of  the  perspective  far 
behind.  The  cheers  faded  away,  and  he  tried  to 
imagine  the  sensation  of  the  man  for  whom  all  this 
outcry  was  being  made.  The  great  man  seemed 
to  take  it  coolly  enough.  Either  such  things  had 
grown  common  to  him,  or  he  had  trained  himself 
by  a  long  course  of  public  life  to  appear  as  if  they 
had,  for  when  he  was  not  making  speeches  on  the 
rear  platform,  or  shaking  hands  with  little  delega- 
tions that  boarded  the  train  to  go  to  the  Lincoln 
meeting,  he  was  resting  in  his  stateroom.  He  was 
not  well,  Garwood  heard  the  colonel  explain  to 
some  one,  and  had  to  conserve  his  energies,  though 


On  the  Stump  55 

like  some  athlete  in  training  he  seemed  able  to  rest 
and  sleep  between  his  exertions. 

Rankin  had  wearied  of  the  formalities  of  the 
private  car  and,  as  the  train  began  to  fill  with 
familiar  forms,  men  with  whom  he  had  battled  In 
conventions  for  years^  he  had  fled  to  the  easier 
society  and  the  denser  atmosphere  of  the  smoking 
car,  greeting  countless  friends  from  all  over  the 
district,  and  doing  the  campaign  work  Garwood 
felt  he  should  be  doing  himself.  But  the  mag- 
netism of  his  great  leader,  the  joy  of  being  in  a 
presence  all  men  were  courting  in  those  days,  per- 
haps, too,  a  desire  to  feel  to  the  utmost  the  distinc- 
tion of  riding  in  a  private  car,  kept  him  there. 

The  train  had  reached  Atlanta  Hill,  and  now  its 
noise  subsided.  The  engine  no  longer  vomited  black 
masses  of  smoke,  but  seemed  to  hold  its  breath 
as,  with  wheels  that  spun  so  swiftly  they  seemed 
motionless,  it  coasted  silently  and  swiftly  down  that 
steep  grade.  The  spires  and  roofs  of  little  Lawn- 
dale  showed  an  instant  above  the  trees,  and  then 
out  on  the  level  again  the  train  sped  on  toward 
Lincoln. 

Garwood  arose  and  got  the  overcoat  he  carried 
to  draw  on  after  each  speech,  for  its  moral  im- 
pressiveness  as  much  as  to  keep  him  from  catching 
cold,  and  as  the  engine  began  to  puff  heavily,  and 
the  train  rolled  into  Lincoln^  Rankin  appeared,  hot 
and  perspiring. 

"Come  on/'  he  said  to  Garwood,  "we're  there. 
The  boys  have  all  been  askin'  fer  you !" 


56  The  13  th   District 

"Have  they?"  asked  Garwood,  half  guiUily. 
"What  did  you  tell  them?" 

"I  told  'em  you  was  back  here  closeted  with  the 
old  man ;  that  he  wouldn't  let  you  out  of  his  sight, 
that's  what  I  told  'em." 

They  heard  the  strains  of  a  marching  band,  and 
then  a  cheer  arose. 


VI 


THE  crowd  began  its  cheering  as  the  engine 
slid  on  past  the  weather-beaten  station  and 
stopped,  puffing  importantly  as  if  it  knew  how 
big  a  load  it  had  hauled.  And  then  the  candidate  ap- 
peared, and  midway  in  a  cheer  the  crowd  ceased, 
stricken  into  silence  by  the  sight  of  him.  He  stood 
for  an  instant,  pale  and  distinguished,  a  smile  on  his 
cleanly  chiseled  face,  an  impersonal  smile,  almost 
the  smile  of  a  child,  as  if  he  were  unaccustomed  to 
all  about  him,  crowd,  committees,  even  the  steps 
of  the  railway  carriage,  for  three  men  helped  him 
down  these  as  if  he  could  not  know  how  such 
things  were  done  and  might  injure  himself.  Look- 
ing carefully  to  his  right  and  to  his  left,  still  with 
that  impersonal  smile  on  his  face,  the  candidate  set 
his  patent  leather  boots  to  the  splintered  platform, 
and  then  sighing  "Ah!"  looked  around  over  the 
crowd. 

It  was  all  confusion  where  they  stood,  but  Rankin 
was  already  beside  the  candidate,  calling  him  "Mr. 
President"  as  he  introduced  to  him  promiscuously 
men  who  had  pressed  forward  grinning  in  a  not 
altogether  hopeless  embarrassment.  All  this  time 
the  chairman  of  the  Logan  County  committee  was 
fluttering  about,  striving  to  recall  the  orderly 
scheme  of  arrangement  he  had  devised  for  the  oc- 
casion.    He  had  written  it  all  out  on  a  slip  of 

57 


58  The  13  th   District 

paper  the  night  before,  having  the  carriages  num- 
bered, and,  in  a  bracket  set  against  each  number, 
the  names  of  those  who  were  to  ride  in  that  car- 
riage, just  as  he  had  seen  the  thing  done  at  a 
funeral.  But  now  he  found  that  he  had  left  his 
slip  of  paper  at  home,  and  he  found  that  he  had 
forgotten  the  arrangement  as  well,  just  as  a  man 
in  the  cold  hour  of  delivery  forgets  a  speech  he 
has  written  out  and  burdened  his  memory  with. 
As  the  chairman  turned  this  way  and  that,  several 
of  his  townsmen  noticing  the  indecision  and  per- 
plexity written  on  his  face,  with  the  pitiless  Ameri- 
can sense  of  humor,  mockingly  proposed : 

"Three  cheers  for  McBain!" 

As  the  crowd  gave  the  cheers,  the  chairman  be- 
came redder  than  ever  and  entreated  the  driver  of 
the  first  carriage  to  come  closer.  The  driver  drew 
his  horses,  whose  tails  he  had  been  crimping  for 
two  weeks,  nearer  the  curb,  and  then  the  chairman 
turned  toward  the  candidate  and  said : 

"This  way,  Mr.  President!" 

The  candidate  had  been  standing  there  smiling 
and  giving  both  his  hands  to  men  and  women  and 
children  that  closed  upon  him,  and  as  the  chairman 
looked  toward  him  he  saw  Garwood  standing  by 
his  side.  The  chairman  had  forgotten  Garwood. 
In  fact  he  had  not  expected  him  until  evening,  and 
he  had  no  place  for  him  in  his  scheme.  Rankin 
saw  McBain's  predicament  and  promptly  assuming 
an  official  relation  to  the  affair,  gently  urged  their 
presidential  candidate  toward  the  waiting  carriage. 


On  the  Stump  59 

Before  the  candidate  would  move,  however,  he 
looked  about  and  said : 

"Where's  the  colonel?" 

Then  the  small  man  in  the  modish  blue  clothes 
appeared  from  behind  him,  and  the  candidate  sighed 
as  if  in  relief.  They  all  helped  him  into  the  carriage, 
and  he  smiled  his  gratitude.  The  colonel  climbed 
into  the  front  seat  facing  his  chief.  Then  another 
traveling  companion  of  the  candidate,  a  man  who 
was  slated  for  a  cabinet  position,  followed  him. 
Garwood  seemed  about  to  withdraw  and  had  raised 
his  hand  to  lift  his  hat,  when  Rankin  said: 

"Get  right  in,  Mr.  Garwood,  there's  plenty  of 
room!" 

Garwood  felt  called  upon  to  demur,  knowing  that 
no  place  had  been  reserved  for  him^  but  Rankin 
began  to  shove  from  behind,  and  Garwood  found 
himself  sitting  in  the  same  carriage  with  the  presi- 
dential candidate.  The  chairman,  who  had  expect- 
ed to  ride  with  the  great  guest  himself,  scanned 
the  line  of  carriages  drawn  up  for  the  others  in  the 
party,  and  then  slamming  the  door  shut  on  them, 
said  to  the  driver : 

"All  right,  Billy." 

The  drums  rolled  again,  and  the  band  began  to 
play.  The  captains  of  the  marching  clubs  shouted 
their  military  orders,  and  the  carriage  moved.  The 
crowd  cheered,  and  the  candidate  turning,  became 
suddenly  grave.  His  pale  face  flushed  slightly  as 
with  an  easy,  distinguished  air  he  lifted  his  high 
hat. 

Garwood  saw  that  Rankin  had  secured  a  seat 


6o  The  13  th   District 

in  one  of  the  carriages  farther  back  in  the  line, 
and  tliat  half  a  dozen  newspaper  men,  whom  the 
local  chairman  had  failed  to  take  into  account,  were 
standing,  with  bored,  insouciant  expressions,  wait- 
ing to  be  assigned  to  vehicles,  realizing  that  the 
affair  depended,  for  all  beyond  a  mere  local  suc- 
cess, upon  their  presence.  At  the  last  minute  they 
were  crowded  into  a  hack  in  which  some  of  the 
local  leaders  of  the  party  had  hoped  to  display 
their  importance  before  their  neighbors.  The  slight 
seemed  a  little  thing  at  the  time,  but  it  eventually 
created  a  factional  fight  in  that  county.  The  local 
chairman  himself  was  compelled  to  mount  beside 
the  driver  of  one  of  the  vehicles. 
■  Amid  a  crash  of  brass,  the  throb  of  drums,  and  a 
great  roar  from  human  throats  the  procession 
wound  up  the  crowded  street.  All  the  way  the 
sidewalks  were  lined  with  people,  and  all  the  way 
the  candidate  lifted  his  high  hat  with  that  dis- 
tinguished gesture. 

The  whole  county  had  come  in  from  the  coun- 
try, and  farmers'  muddy  wagons  were  hitched  to 
every  rack,  their  owners  clinging  to  the  bridles 
of  horses  that  reared  and  plunged  as  the  bands 
went  by.  One  township  had  sent  a  club  of  mounted 
farmers,  who  wore  big  hats  and  rode  horses  on 
whose  hides  were  imprinted  the  marks  of  harness, 
and  whose  caparisons  were  of  all  descriptions  from 
the  yellow  pelts  of  sheep  to  Mexican  saddles,  de- 
noting a  terrible  scouring  of  the  township  before 
daylight  that  morning.  These  men  were  stern 
and   fierce   and    formed   a   sort   of   rude    cavalry 


On  the  Stump  6i 

escort  for  the  great  man  whom  they  cheered  so 
hoarsely.  The  procession  did  not  go  directly  to 
the  court  house,  for  that  was  only  two  blocks 
away,  but  made  a  slow  and  jolting  progress  along 
those  streets  that  were  decorated  for  the  occa- 
sion. There  were  flags  and  bunting  everywhere 
and  numerous  pictures  of  the  candidate  himself, 
of  varying  degrees  of  likeness  to  him,  and  pictures, 
too,  of  his  "running  mate,"  the  candidate  for  vice- 
president,  who  at  that  minute  was  enjoying  a  sim- 
ilar ovation  in  some  far  off  Eastern  village.  Some 
of  the  householders,  galled  by  the  bitterness  of 
partisanship,  flaunted  in  their  windows  pictures  of 
the  candidate's  rival,  but  the  great  man  lifted  his 
hat  and  bowed  to  them,  clustered  in  silence  before 
their  residences,  as  impartially  as  he  did  to  those 
of  his  own  party. 

In  the  last  two  blocks  before  the  procession 
reached  the  court  house  square  they  could  hear  a 
man  speaking,  and  Garwood  knew  that  the  voice 
was  the  voice  of  General  Stager.  The  old  court 
house  standing  in  its  ancient  dignity  in  a  park  of 
oak  trees,  lifting  its  plastered  columns  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  the  calm  of  classic  beauty,  broke  on  their 
sight,  and  the  music  of  the  bands,  as  they  brayed 
into  the  square,  filled  the  whole  area  with  their 
triumphant  strains  and  cheer  on  cheer  leaped  to- 
ward them.  The  music  and  the  cheers  drowned 
the  voice  of  General  Stager,  and  his  audience  sud- 
denly left  him  and  surged  toward  the  approach- 
ing procession.  The  cheering  was  continuous,  the 
candidate's  white  head  was  bare  most  of  the  time, 


62  The  13th   District 

and  when  the  carriage  stopped  and  he  was  assisted 
up  the  steps  into  the  speaker's  stand,  the  bands 
exultantly  played  "Union  Forever,  Hurrah,  Boys, 
Hurrah!"  the  horns  fairly  singing  the  words  of  the 
song. 

General  Stager,  red  and  drenched  with  perspira- 
tion, advanced  to  shake  the  hand  of  the  presidential 
candidate,  and  the  spectacle  set  the  crowd  yelling 
again.  The  candidate  began  his  speech  immedi- 
ately. It  was  the  same  speech  he  had  delivered 
all  along  his  itinerary,  though  his  allusions  to  the 
splendid  agricultural  community  in  which  he  found 
himself,  the  good  crops  that  had  been  yielded  to 
the  hand  of  the  husbandman,  gave  a  fictitious  local 
color,  and  his  touching  reference  to  his  old  friend, 
General  Bancroft,  by  whose  side  he  had  sat  at 
Washington  through  so  many  stirring  years  fraught 
with  deeds  and  occasions  of  such  vast  import  to 
the  national  life,  and  his  glowing  tribute  to  the 
Bloody  Ninety-third,  brought  the  applause  roll- 
ing up  to  him  in  great  waves.  He  spoke  for  nearly 
an  hour,  standing  at  the  railing  with  the  big  flag 
hanging  down  before  him  and  a  big,  white  water 
pitcher  standing  close  beside;  behind  him  were  the 
vice-presidents  sitting  with  studied  gravity;  near 
by,  the  reporters  writing  hurriedly;  before  him  and 
around  him,  under  the  green  and  motionless  trees, 
a  vast  multitude,  heads  many  of  them  bared,  faces 
upturned,  with  brows  knit  to  aid  in  concentration, 
jaws  working  as  they  chewed  on  their  eternal  to- 
bacco. 

Out  at  the   edges   of  the   crowd,   a  continual 


On  the   Stump  63 

movement  shifted  the  masses  .and  groups  of  men, 
along  the  curb  were  Hnes  of  wagons,  with  horses 
stamping  and  switching  their  tails,  across  the  street 
on  the  three-storied  brick  blocks,  the  flutter  of  flags 
and  bunting.  The  old  court  house,  frowning  some- 
how with  the  majesty  of  the  law,  formed  a  stately, 
solemn  background  for  it  all;  overhead  v/as  the 
sky,  piling  rapidly  now  with  clouds.  The  whole 
square  gave  an  efifect  of  strange  stillness,  even  with 
the  voice  of  the  speaker  ringing  through  it;  the 
crowd  was  silent,  treasuring  his  words  for  future 
repetition,  treasuring  perhaps  the  sight  of  him,  the 
sensation  of  being  in  his  actual  presence,  for  the 
tale  of  future  years. 

But  suddenly,  in  a  second,  when  the  crowd  was 
held  in  the  magic  spell  of  his  oratory,  when  men 
were  least  thinking  of  such  a  thing,  he  ceased  to 
talk,  the  speech  was  over,  the  event  was  closed, 
and  the  great  man,  not  pausing  even  long  enough 
to  let  the  vice-presidents  of  the  meeting  shake 
hands  with  him,  or  to  hear  the  Lincoln  Glee  Club 
sing  a  campaign  song,  looked  about  for  the  colonel, 
climbed  out  of  the  stand  into  his  carriage  and  was 
whirled  away,  lifting  his  hat,  still  with  that  dis- 
tinguished air,  amid  cheers  that  would  not  let  the 
campaign  song  begin,  and  with  little  boys  swarming 
like  outrunners  at  his  glistening  wheels. 

When  the  meeting  was  over,  Garwood  went  to 
the  hotel  to  wait  for  Rankin,  who  had  a  mysterious, 
but  always  purposeful  way  of  disappearing  at  times 
of  such  political  excitement  as  had  been  rocking 
Lincoln  all  that  day.     Garwood  had  long  since 


64  The  13  th   District 

learned,  when  Rankin  thus  went  under  the  poHtical 
waters,  to  await  calmly  his  reappearance  at  the 
surface,  and  so  he  wrote  Rankin's  name  and  his 
own  name  on  the  blotted  register  of  the  hotel,  and 
asked  for  a  room.  He  had  scarcely  laid  down  the 
corroded  pen  the  landlord  found  in  a  drawer,  when 
a  voice  beside  him  said: 

"Did  you  see  it  yet,  Jerry?" 

Garwood  turned  to  look  in  the  grinning  face  of 
Julius  Vogt^  who  had  come  over  with  the  Grand 
Prairie  "excursion"  that  morning. 

"See  what?"  asked  Garwood. 

"Why,"  said  Vogt,  drawing  something  from  his 
pocket,  "Pusey's  article  about  you — there,"  and  he 
opened  the  copy  of  the  Nezvs  and  gave  it  to  Gar- 
wood. 

"Oh!"  said  Garwood,  ''that!— I  saw  part  of  it." 
And  he  smiled  on  Vogt,  whom  he  felt  like  striking. 

"Well,"  said  Vogt,  still  grinning,  though  his  grin 
was  losing  something,  "I  jus'  thought,  maybe, — " 

"Thanks,"  said  Garwood.  Several  others  of  the 
Grand  Prairie  boys,  as  any  one,  considering  them 
in  their  political  capacity,  would  have  called  them, 
had  drawn  near,  attracted  by  their  candidate  for 
Congress,  whose  wide  hat  rode  above  all  the  heads 
in  the  crowd.  Doubtless  they  expected  Garwood 
to  open  the  paper,  but  he  was  too  good  a  politi- 
cian for  that.  As  he  stood  there  he  idly  picked  at 
the  ragged  edges  of  the  sheets,  and  when  he  spoke 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  it,  for  he  said: 

"Well,  how'd  you  like  the  speech?" 

"Great,"  said  Billy  Peek. 


On  the  Stump  65 

"You  bet,"  said  Doris  Fox. 

"Didn't  he  lam  into  'em?"  said  Burr  Rippleman. 

Still  their  eyes  were  on  the  paper  which  Gar- 
wood seemed  to  be  in  danger  of  picking  to  pieces. 

"Yes,  it  was  .as  fine  an  efifort  as  I  ever  heard  un- 
der such  circumstances,"  said  Garwood.  "He's  a 
great  campaigner."  He  carelessly  thrust  the  paper 
into  the  side  pocket  of  the  black  alpaca  coat  he 
wore.    The  boys  were  sober  faced  again, 

"Goin'  back  wdth  us  to-night,  Jerry?"  said  Elam 
Kirk.  "We're  goin'  to  hold  the  train  till  after  your 
speech." 

"Reckon  not,"  Garwood  replied.  "I'm  going  over 
to  Pekin  in  the  morning."  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
"Well!"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  nearly  supper  time,  and 
I  haven't  given  a  thought  to  what  I'm  going  to 
say  to-night.  Will  you  come  have  a  little  drink 
before  supper?" 

The  boys  grinned  again,  saying  they  didn't  care 
if  they  did,  and  followed  Garwood  towards  the 
dingy  bar-room,  making  old  jokes  about  drinking, 
in  the  manner  of  the  small  town,  the  citizens  of 
which,  because  of  their  stricter  moral  environment, 
or  perhaps  of  more  officious  neighbors,  can  never 
indulge  in  tippling  with  the  freedom  of  city-bred 
fellows.  Garwood  could  not  escape  without  a 
joke  at  his  expense,  attempted  by  some  one  of  the 
party  whose  appreciation  of  hospitality  was  not  re- 
fined, and  though  it  made  him  shudder  he  had  to 
join  in  the  laugh  it  provoked.  But  when  he  could 
get  away  from  them  at  last,  he  went  to  the  room 
he  had  taken,  and  there,  seated  on  the  edge  of  the 


66  The  13  th   District 

bed,  he  opened  the  paper  and  held  it  in  the  window 
to  catch  the  fading  light.  It  had  been  issued  at 
noon  that  day,  and  given  an  added  importance  by 
the  word  "Extra!"  printed  in  black  and  urgent 
type  at  the  head  of  its  page.  But  below,  Garwood 
read  another  word,  a  word  tliat  needed  no  bold 
type  to  make  it  black — "Boodler!" — and  then — 
his  own  name. 

Pusey  had  adroitly  chosen  that  day  as  the  one 
most  likely  to  aid  the  efifect  of  his  sensation,  and 
the  opposing  committee  had  gladly  undertaken  to 
circulate  hundreds  of  copies  at  the  Lincoln  rally. 
The  article  was  obviously  done  by  Pusey  himself, 
and  he  had  taken  a  keen  delight  in  the  work.  He 
had  written  it  in  the  strain  of  one  who  performs 
a  painful  public  duty,  the  strain  in  which  a  judge, 
gladdened  more  and  more  by  his  own  utterance, 
sentences  a  convicted  criminal,  though  without  the 
apology  a  judge  always  makes  to  the  subject  of 
his  discourse,  in  carefully  differentiating  his  ofificial 
duty  from  his  individual  inclination. 

Garwood  forced  himself  remorselessly  to  read  it 
through,  to  the  very  end,  and  then  abstractedly, 
sitting  there  in  the  fading  light  that  straggled  in 
from  the  dirty  street  outside,  he  picked  the  paper 
into  little  pieces,  and  sprinkled  them  on  the  floor. 
The  letters  of  the  headline  were  printed  on  his 
mind,  and  as  he  sat  there  in  the  darkness  and 
viewed  the  litter  he  had  made,  seeing  it  all  as  the 
ruin  of  his  life  .and  hopes,  he  flung  his  great  body 
headlong  on  the  bed  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands. 


On  the  Stump  67 

Half  an  hour  later  Rankin  thrust  his  head  in  at 
the  door  and  called  into  the  darkness  that  filled 
the  room: 

"Oh,  Jerry!" 

He  haltingly  entered,  piercing  the  gloom,  and 
dimly  outlining  the  long  form  of  his  candidate 
stretched  on  the  frail  bed. 

"Jerry!  Jerry!"  he  said. 

Garwood's  form  was  tall  when  it  stood  erect  in 
the  daylight,  it  was  immense  when  it  lay  prone 
in  the  dark.  There  was  something  in  the  sight  to 
strike  a  kind  of  superstitious  terror  to  the  heart, 
and  Rankin's  elemental  nature  sensed  something 
of  this,  but  when  Garwood  heaved  and  gave  a 
very  human  grunt,  Rankin  cried  in  an  approach  to 
anger : 

**Aw,  git  up  out  o'  that!  Don't  you  hear  the  band 
tunin'  up  outside?" 

The  crowd  in  town  had  been  gradually  decreas- 
ing all  through  the  waning  afternoon ;  the  mul- 
titude that  had  come  to  hear  a  candidate  for  the 
presidency  would  not  stay  to  listen  to  a  candidate 
for  Congress.  With  the  falling  of  the  night  there 
had  been  a  gathering  of  gray  clouds,  and  at  the 
threatening  of  a  storm  the  crowd  thinned  more 
and  more.  Gradually  the  weary  ones  withdrew, 
the  howls  of  tipsy  countrymen  on  the  sides  of  the 
square  subsided,  the  rural  cavalry  galloped  out  of 
town  with  parting  yells  for  their  candidate,  the 
square  in  the  falling  rain  glistened  under  the  elec- 
tric light  that  bathed  the  ancient  pediment  of  the 
court  house   with   a   modern   radiance.    At   nine 


68  The  13th  District 

o'clock  Garwood  finished  his  speech,  ceremoni- 
ously thanking  and  bidding  good  night  a  little  mass 
of  men  who  huddled  with  loyal  partisanship  around 
the  band-stand,  with  a  few  extinguished  torches 
reeking  under  his  nose,  with  the  running  colors  of 
the  flags  and  bunting  staining  the  pine  boards  on 
which  he  rested  his  hands,  and  with  a  few  boys 
chasing  each  other  with  sharp  cries  about  the  edges 
of  the  gathering. 


VII 


ETHAN  HARKNESS,  having  finished  his  la- 
bors, such  as  the  labors  of  a  bank  president 
are,  sat  at  his  old  walnut  desk  in  the  window 
of  the  First  National  Bank  waiting  for  Emily  to 
come  and  drive  him  home.  The  old  man  had  set 
his  desk  in  order,  with  his  big  gold  pen  laid  in  the 
rack  of  his  ink  stand,  his  blotters  held  down  by  a 
paper  weight,  and  a  leaf  of  his  calendar  torn  off, 
ready  for  the  next  day's  business.  The  desk  was  in 
such  order  as  would  have  made  the  work-table  of  a 
professional  man  unfamiliar  to  him,  but,  as  he  wait- 
ed, Ethan  Harkness  rearranged  it  again  and  again, 
absent-mindedly,  changing  the  position  of  the  blot- 
ters, wiping  his  pen  once  more  on  his  gray  hair. 
Then  he  drew  out  his  gold  watch,  adjusted  his 
spectacles,  took  an  observation  of  the  time,  and 
looked  with  an  air  of  incredibility  into  the  street. 
Any  break  in  the  routine  of  his  life  was  a  pain 
to  Ethan  Harkness,  and  it  was  with  a  resignation 
to  this  pain  that  he  called: 

"Morton,  bring  me  the  paper!  I  might  as  well 
read  it  if  I've  got  to  wait," 

The  old  teller,  a  white  haired,  servile  man  with 
the  stoop  of  a  clerk  in  his  shoulders,  and  the  dis- 
individualized  stare  of  a  clerk  in  his  submissive 
eyes,  came  shuffling  in  with  the  paper  he  himself 
had  been  reading.  Harkness  took  it  reluctantly. 
69 


70  The  1 3  th   District 

His  life  was  as  methodical  as  his  calendar,  and  if 
he  read  the  evening  paper  before  supper  he  would 
have  nothing  to  do  after,  for  he  could  not  go  to  bed 
till  nine  o'clock.  If  he  did,  he  awoke  too  soon  in 
the  morning  and  then  he  would  reach  the  bank 
before  the  mail  had  been  delivered.  Thus  it  will 
be  imagined  how  serious  would  be  the  train  of  con- 
sequences set  in  motion  by  one  irregularity  in  his 
day. 

But  he  took  the  paper.  It  was  the  News,  and 
his  eye  lighted  at  once  on  the  article  that  Pusey  had 
written  about  Garwood.  As  he  read  it  a  great  rage 
gathered  in  his  breast,  a  rage  compounded  of  many 
emotions,  which  gradually  took  form,  first  as  a 
hatred  of  Garwood  for  his  misdeeds,  then  of  Pusey 
for  laying  them  bare.  Ethan  Harkness  was  not  a 
man  of  broad  sympathies.  What  love  he  had  was 
bestowed  on  Emily;  he  had  lavished  it  there  ever 
since  his  wife  had  died.  He  gave  so  much  to  her 
that  he  had  none  left  for  others,  and  he  stood  in 
the  community  as  a  hard,  just  man  who  had  built 
up  his  fortune  by  long  years  of  labor  and  self-denial 
that  made  him  impatient  of  the  frailties  which  his 
fellows  in  the  little  community,  in  common  with 
their  brothers  in  the  wider  world,  found  it  so  hard 
to  govern  and  restrain. 

He  sat  there  mute  and  implacable,  with  his  fist, 
still  big  from  the  farm  work  it  had  done  in  early 
life,  clenched  upon  the  News,  while  Morton 
clanked  the  bars  of  the  vault  in  fastening  the  place 
of  treasure  for  the  night,  and  slipped  here  and 
there  behind  his  wire  cage,  pretending  little  duties 


On  the  Stump  71 

to  keep  him  from  facing  his  employer  when  in  such 
a  mood. 

It  was  after  five  o'clock  when  the  surrey  lurched 
into  the  filthy  gutter,  and  when  Harkness  saw  that 
Emily  was  not  in  it,  he  felt  his  rage  with  Garwood 
increase  for  depriving  him  thus  of  the  pleasant 
hour  to  which  he  looked  forward  all  the  afternoon. 
He  rode  home  in  silence  behind  old  Jasper  who 
tried  in  his  companionable  way,  by  making  his 
characteristic  observations  on  men  and  things,  to 
draw  his  master  out  of  his  moody  preoccupation. 

Harkness  found  his  daughter  at  the  supper  table, 
and  when  he  saw  her,  he  at  once  yearned  toward 
her  with  a  great  wish  to  give  her  such  comfort  as 
a  mother  would  have  supplied ;  but  with  something 
of  his  own  stern  nature,  she  held  herself  spiritually 
aloof;  and  he  ate  his  cold  meat,  his  fried  potatoes, 
his  peaches  and  cream  and  drank  his  tea  without  a 
word  from  her,  beyond  some  allusions  to  the  heat 
of  the  sultry  day,  the  prospect  of  rain,  and  the  need 
of  it  at  his  farm  lying  at  the  edge  of  town.  Her 
face  was  white,  but  her  eyes  were  not  red  or  swol- 
len, and  she  gave  him  no  sign  whether  or  not  she 
knew  of  the  blow  that  had  been  struck  at  the  man 
she  loved.  He  thought  several  times  of  telling  her, 
or  asking  her  about  it,  but  he  was  always  half  afraid 
of  her,  and  had  submitted  to  her  rule  all  the  years 
when  no  one  else  was  strong  enough  to  rule  him. 

When  supper  was  done,  she  disappeared,  and  as 
he  strained  his  ears  from  his  library  where  he  was 
reading  all  alone,  he  heard  her  close  a  door  up- 
stairs and  lock  it.    Later,  when  he  went  up  in  his 


72  The  13  th   District 

stocking-feet,  having  left  his  boots  downstairs  in 
the  habit  he  had  brought  out  of  the  poverty  of  his 
boyhood  into  the  comfort  of  his  age,  he  paused  a 
moment  by  her  door,  and  raised  his  hand  as  if  to 
knock;  but  he  could  not  figure  it  out,  he  said  to 
himself,  and  so  changed  his  mind  and  went  to  bed, 
leaving  it  all  to  time. 

When  Emily  went  to  her  room,  she  sat  at  her 
dressing  table  a  moment  looking  at  her  own  re- 
flection, until  her  features  became  so  strange  that 
a  fear  of  insanity  haunted  her,  and  then  she  half 
undressed  and  lay  down  upon  her  bed.  She  told 
herself  that  she  could  not  sleep  that  night,  and  yet, 
after  her  first  burst  of  tears  she  fell  into  the  sound 
and  natural  slumber  of  grief-stricken  youth  with 
its  vague  apologetic  hope  that  the  whitened  hair 
will  show  in  the  morning. 

Far  in  the  night  she  .awoke  with  a  strange  ig- 
norance of  time  and  place.  She  shivered  with  the 
chill  of  the  night  air.  Rain  was  falling  and  she 
heard  the  lace  curtains  at  the  windows  scraping 
in  the  wind  against  the  heavy  leaves  of  a  fern 
she  was  nurturing,  and  with  a  woman's  intuitive 
dread  of  the  damage  rain  may  do  when  windows 
are  open,  she  arose  to  close  them.  The  cool  air 
swept  in  upon  her,  driving  the  fine  mist  of  the  rain, 
but  she  let  it  spray  a  moment  upon  her  face,  upon 
her  breast^  before  she  pulled  her  window  down. 
Outside  the  yard  lay  in  blackness,  and  she  looked 
down  on  it  long  enough  to  distinguish  all  its  fa- 
miliar objects,  each  bush  and  shrub  and  tree;  she 
saw  the  lawn  mower  stranded  by  the  walk  and  she 


On  the  Stump  73 

thought  how  her  father  would  scold  old  Jasper  in 
the  morning;  and  then  she  thought  it  strange  and 
unreal  that  she  could  think  of  such  irrelevant 
things  at  such  a  time.  Yet  every  material  thing 
was  aggressively  normal;  the  electric  light  swing- 
ing and  creaking  at  the  corner  of  Ohio  Street  with 
the  rain  slanting  across  the  ovoid  of  light  that 
clung  around  it  showed  that;  everything  the  same 
— ^yet  all  changed  with  her. 

She  turned  from  her  window.  The  darkness  in- 
doors was  kind,  it  seemed  to  hide  the  wound  that 
had  been  dealt  her,  and  she  hastily  undressed  and 
got  to  bed,  curling  up  like  a  little  child.  Then  she 
lay  and  tried  to  think,  until  her  head  ached.  She 
had  been  thinking  thus  ever  since  the  cruel  mo- 
ment that  afternoon  when  she  had  picked  up  the 
News  on  the  veranda. 

Her  heart  had  been  light  that  day.  She  had 
thought  of  Jerome  as  he  traveled  in  his  private 
car  with  ,a  coming  president.  She  had  gone  with 
him  to  Lincoln,  and  seen  him  riding  through  the 
crowded  streets;  had  beheld  him  in  the  flare  of 
torches,  his  face  alight  with  the  inspiration  of  an 
orator,  his  eyes  fine  and  sparkling,  as  she  had  so 
often  seen  them  blazing  with  another  passion;  had 
heard  his  ringing  voice,  and  the  cheers  of  the  frantic 
people,  massed  in  that  remembered  square.  And 
so  in  the  afternoon  she  became  impatient  for  the 
cry  the  boy  gave  when  he  tossed  the  local  papers 
on  the  floor  of  the  veranda.  She  had  swooped 
down  on  them  before  the  boy  had  turned  his  little 
back  and  mounted  his  wheel.    And  the  thing  that 


74  The  13th   District 

first  struck  her  eye  had  smitten  her  heart  still — the 
headlines  bearing  Garwood's  name.  She  had 
caught  at  the  newel  post  in  the  wide  hall  to  keep 
from  falling. 

It  had  not  then  occurred  to  her  to  doubt  the 
truth  of  the  tale  Pusey  had  told.  She  had  not  yet 
progressed  in  politics  or  in  life  far  enough  to  learn 
to  take  with  the  necessary  grain  of  salt  everything 
a  newspaper  prints.  The  very  fact  that  a  state- 
ment was  in  type  impressed  her  as  abundant  proof 
of  its  truth,  as  it  does  children,  young  and  old,  a 
fact  which  has  prolonged  the  life  of  many  fables  for 
centuries  and  will  make  others  immortal.  It  seemed 
to  her  simply  an  inexorable  thing  and  she  turned 
this  way  and  that  in  a  vain  effort  to  adjust  the 
heavy  load  so  that  it  might  more  easily  be  borne. 
But  when  she  found  it  becoming  intolerable,  she 
began  to  seek  some  way  of  escaping  it.  In  that 
hour  of  the  night  she  first  doubted  its  truth;  her 
heart  leaped,  she  gave  a  half-smothered  laugh. 
Then  she  willed  that  it  be  not  true,  she  determined 
that  it  must  not  be  true,  and  with  a  child-like  trust 
in  His  omnipotence,  she  prayed  to  God  to  make  it 
untrue.    And  so  she  fell  asleep  at  last. 

All  these  hours  of  the  night,  in  a  far  humbler 
street  of  the  town,  in  a  small  frame  house  where 
nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  ticking  of  an  old 
brown  Seth  Thomas  clock,  a  woman  lay  sleeping. 
Her  scant,  white  hair  was  parted  on  her  wrinkled 
brow,  her  long  hands,  hardened  by  the  years  of 
work,  were  folded  on  her  breast,  and  her  face,  dark 
and  seamed  as  it  was,  wore  a  peaceful  smile,  for 


On  the  Stump  75 

she  had  fallen  asleep  thinking  of  her  boy,  laugh- 
ing at  his  traducers,  and  praying,  pronouncing  the 
words  in  earnest  whispers  that  could  have  been 
heard  far  back  in  the  kitchen  which  she  had  set  in 
such  shining  order,  that  her  boy's  enemies  might 
be  forgiven,  because  they  knew  not  what  they  did. 


VIII 


WHEN  Rankin  came  home  from  the  Lincoln 
mass  meeting,  he  seemed  to  have  reached 
that  stage  in  the  evohition  of  his  campaign 
when  it  was  necessary  to  put  forth  mighty  claims 
of  victory.  He  declared  that  he  had  never  had  any 
doubt  of  ultimate  success  at  the  polls,  though  he 
admitted,  with  a  vast  wave  of  his  arms  to  embody 
the  whole  magnanimity  of  his  concession,  that  he 
had  felt  somewhat  disturbed  by  that  apathy  which 
was  the  result  of  over-confidence.  But  the  meeting 
at  Lincoln,  he  said,  had  completely  dispelled  these 
fears.  He  said  that  the  meeting  at  Lincoln  had  been 
a  great  outpouring  of  the  common  people,  and  that 
they  had  gone  home  so  deeply  enthusiastic,  after  the 
sight  of  their  great  leader,  that  it  was  now  only  a 
question  of  majorities.  And  as  for  Garwood,  why, 
he  had  never  been  so  proud  of  the  boy  in  his  life. 
The  visit  of  the  presidential  candidate  would  in- 
crease the  normal  majority  of  twenty-two  hundred 
in  the  Thirteenth  District  to  three  thousand,  but 
Garwood  Vv^as  bound  to  run  at  least  live  hundred 
ahead  of  the  ticket.  Rankin  had  published  these 
views  extensively  as  he  sat  in  the  smoking  car  of 
the  excursion  train  that  jolted  over  from  Lincoln 
the  night  of  the  big  meeting.  The  Grand  Prairie 
boys  had  been  disturbed  by  the  story  printed  in  the 

76 


On  the  Stump  77 

Nezvs  but  Rankin  laughed  at  their  fears,  just  as  he 
had  laughed  at  Garwood. 

"Why,  it'll  do  him  good!"  Rankin  declared, 
bringing  his  palm  down  on  the  knee  of  Joe  Kerr, 
the  secretary  of  the  Polk  County  central  commit- 
tee. "Do  him  good,  I  tell  you.  It's  worth  a  thou- 
sand votes  to  us  in  Polk  alone  to  have  that  little 
cur  spring  his  blackmailin'  scheme  at  this  stage  o' 
the  campaign.  It's  as  good  as  a  certificate  of  moral 
character  from  the  county  court." 

"Do  you  think  it's  a  blackmailin'  scheme?"  asked 
Kerr. 

"Think  it!"  cried  Rankin,  "why,  damn  it,  man,  I 
know  it — didn't  you  hear  how  Jerry  threw  him  out 
of  his  office  the  day  he  tried  to  hold  him  up?  Why, 
he'd  'a'  killed  him  if  I  hadn't  held  him  back.  You'd 
ought  to  post  up  on  the  political  history  of  your 
own  times,  Joe." 

The  men  who  were  perched  on  the  arms  and 
hanging  over  the  backs  of  the  car  seats,,  pitching 
dangerously  with  the  lurches  the  train  gave  in  the 
agony  of  a  bonded  indebtedness  that  pointed  to  an 
early  receivership,  laughed  above  the  groanings  of 
the  trucks  beneath  them.  They  had  gathered  there 
for  the  delight  it  always  gave  them  to  hear  Jim 
Rankin  talk,  a  delight  that  Rankin  shared  with 
them. 

"Why  didn't  you  kill  him,  Jim?"  one  of  them 
asked. 

"Oh,"  he  said  with  an  afifectation  of  modesty  as 
he  dropped  his  eyes  and  with  his  hand  made  moral 
protest,  "I  wanted  him  to  print  his  story  first.    I'll 


78  The  13  th   District 

have  to  kill  him  some  day,  but  I  reckon  I  won't 
have  time  before  election." 

While  Rankin  was  extravagant  in  talk,  he  cal- 
culated pretty  accurately  the  effect  of  his  words, 
and  never  said  many  things,  in  a  political  way  at 
least,  that  came  back  to  plague  him.  His  concep- 
tion of  Pusey's  motives  was  eagerly  accepted  by  his 
own  party  men,  and  they  went  home  with  a'  new 
passion  for  work  in  the  wards  ,and  townships. 

Pusey  meanwhile  had  been  standing  on  street 
corners  in  Grand  Prairie,  swinging  his  cane,  and 
glancing  out  with  a  shifty  eye  from  under  his  yel- 
low straw  hat,  but  men  avoided  him  or  when  they 
spoke  to  him,  did  so  with  a  pleasantry  that  was 
wholly  feigned  and  always  overdone,  because  they 
feared  to  antagonize  him.  Rankin  had  not  seen  him 
since  the  publication  of  his  screed,  but  one  evening, 
going  into  the  Cassell  House,  he  saw  the  soiled 
little  editor  leaning  against  the  counter  of  the  cigar 
stand.  The  big  man  strode  up  to  him,  and  his  red 
face  and  neck  grew  redder,  as  he  seized  Pusey  by 
the  collar  of  his  coat. 

"You  little  snake!"  Rankin  cried,  so  that  all  the 
men  in  the  lobby  crowded  eagerly  forward  in  the 
pleasant  excitement  the  prospect  of  a  fight  still  stirs 
in  the  bosoms  of  men.  "I've  got  a  notion  to  pull 
your  head  off,  and  spat  it  up  ag'inst  that  wall  there!" 

He  gave  the  little  man  a  shake  that  jolted  his 
straw  hat  down  to  his  eyes. 

"You  just  dare  to  print  another  line  about  us 
and  you'll  settle  with  me,  you  hear?  I'll  pull  your 
head  off — no,  I'll  pinch  it  ofif,  and — " 


On  the  Stump  70 

Rankin,  failing  of  words  to  express  his  contempt, 
let  go  Pusey's  coat  and  filliped  directly  under  his 
nose  as  if  he  were  shooting  a  marble.  Pusey  glared 
at  him,  with  hatred  in  his  eyes. 

"Don't  hurt  him^  Jim,"  one  of  the  men  in  the 
crowd  pleaded.  They  all  laughed,  and  Pusey's  eye 
grew  greener. 

"Well,  I  won't  kill  you  this  evenin',''  relented 
Rankin,  throwing  to  the  floor  the  cigar  he  had  half 
smoked,  "I  wouldn't  want  to  embarrass  the  devil 
at  a  busy  time  like  this." 

The  Chicago  papers  had  not  covered  the  Gar- 
wood story,  as  the  newspaper  phrase  is,  though  the 
Grand  Prairie  correspondents  had  gladly  wired  it 
to  them.  But  the  Advertiser  as  well  as  one  or  two 
other  newspapers  in  the  Thirteenth  District,  which 
were  opposed  politically  to  Garwood,  had  not  been 
able  to  resist  the  temptation  to  have  a  fling  at  him 
on  its  account,  though  with  cautious  reservations 
born  more  of  a  financial  than  a  moral  solvency. 

The  Evening  News  with  all  the  undiminished 
relish  Pusey  could  find  in  any  morsel  of  scandal, 
had  continued  to  display  its  story  day  after  day 
with  what  it  boasted  were  additional  details,  but 
on  the  day  following  the  incident  in  the  Cassell 
House,  Pusey  left  ofif  abusing  Garwood  to  abuse 
Rankin,  and  smarting  under  Rankin's  public  hu- 
miliation of  him,  injected  into  his  attack  all  the 
venom  of  his  little  nature.  He  kept,  however,  out 
of  Rankin's  way,  and  all  the  while  the  big  fellow 
as  he  read  the  articles  chuckled  until  his  fat  sides 
shook. 


8o  The   13  th   District 

Jim  Rankin  was  the  most  popular  man  in  Grand 
Prairie;  men  loved  to  boast  for  him  that  he  had 
more  friends  than  any  three  men  in  Polk  County, 
and  the  sympathy  that  came  for  Garwood  out  of  a 
natural  reaction  from  so  much  abuse,  was  increased 
to  sworn  fealty  when  Rankin  was  made  the  target 
for  Pusey's  poisoned  shafts.  When  the  story  first 
appeared  the  men  of  Grand  Prairie  had  gossiped 
about  it  with  the  smiling  toleration  men  have  for 
such  things,  but  now  it  was  a  common  thing  to 
hear  them  declare  that  they  would  vote  for  Gar- 
wood just  to  show  Free  Pusey  that  his  opinions 
did  not  go  for  much  in  that  community. 

Emily  Harkness  did  not  leave  the  house  for 
days.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  bear  to  go  down 
town,  where  every  one  would  see  her;  and  there  was 
nowhere  else  to  go,  save  out  into  the  country,  and 
there  no  one  who  lives  in  the  country  ever  thinks  of 
going  unless  he  has  to  go. 

She  had  entrenched  herself  behind  the  idea 
that  the  story  was  untrue,  and  she  daily  fortified 
this  position  as  her  only  possible  defense  from 
despair,  seeking  escape  from  her  reflections  when 
they  became  too  aggressive  by  adding  to  her  in- 
terest in  Garwood's  campaign.  She  knew  how 
much  his  election  meant  to  him  in  every  way,  and 
though  she  preferred  to  dissociate  herself  from 
the  idea  of  its  effect  on  her  own  destiny,  she  quickly 
went  to  the  politician's  standpoint  of  viewing  it 
now  as  a  necessary  vindication,  as  if  its  result  by 
the  divine  force  of  a  popular  majority  could  dis- 
prove the  assertions   of   Garwood's   little  enemy. 

Emily  read  all  the  papers  breathlessly  dreading 


On  the  Stump  8i 

a  repetition  of  the  story,  but  her  heart  grew  lighter 
as  she  found  no  further  reference  to  it.  She  had 
ordered  the  boy  to  stop  delivering  the  News,  and 
she  enjoyed  a  woman's  sense  of  revenge  in  this 
action,  believing  that  it  would  in  some  way  cripple 
Pusey's  fortunes.  She  resolved,  too,  that  her 
friends  should  cease  to  take  the  sheet,  but  she  could 
not  bring  herself  to  make  the  first  active  step  in 
this  crusade. 

Meanwhile,  she  had  watched  for  an  indignant 
denial  from  Garwood  himself,  and  she  thought  it 
strange  that  none  appeared.  But  finally,  striving 
to  recall  all  she  knew  of  men's  strange  notions  of 
honor,  and  slowly  marking  out  a  course  proper  for 
one  in  Garwood's  situation  to  pursue,  she  came  to 
the  belief  that  he  was  right  in  not  dignifying  the 
attack  by  his  notice.  She  derived  a  deeper  satis- 
faction when  the  thought  burst  upon  her  one  day, 
making  her  clasp  her  hands  and  lift  them  to  her 
chin  with  a  gasp  of  joy  such  as  she  had  not  known 
for  days,  that  the  same  high  notion  had  kept  him 
from  writing  to  her,  though  her  conception  of  a 
lover's  duty  in  correspondence  was  the  common 
one,  that  is,  that  he  should  write,  if  only  a  line, 
every  day.  But  Garwood  was  busy,  she  knew,  with 
his  speaking  engagements  in  Tazewell  and  Mason 
Counties,  and  she  tried  faithfully  to  follow  him  on 
the  little  itinerary  he  had  drawn  up  for  her,  await- 
ing his  coming  home  in  the  calm  faith  that  he 
would  set  it  all  aright. 


IX 


THE  strong-limbed  girl  who  went  striding  up 
the  walk  to  the  Harkness's  porch  was  the 
only  intimate  of  her  own  sex  that  Emily  had 
retained;  perhaps  she  retained  her  because  Dade 
Emerson  was  away  from  Grand  Prairie  so  much 
that  custom  could  not  stale  this  friendship.  The 
girls  had  been  reared  side  by  side,  they  had  gone 
to  the  same  school  and,  later,  for  a  while,  to  the 
same  college;  and  they  had  glowed  over  those 
secret  passions  of  their  young  girlhood,  just  as  they 
had  wept  when  their  lengthened  petticoats  com- 
pelled them  to  give  up  paper  dolls. 

Dade  Emerson,  however,  had  never  shared 
Emily's  love  of  study;  she  conformed  more  readily 
to  the  athletic  type  at  that  time  coming  into  vogue. 
In  the  second  year  of  Dade's  college  course,  old 
Mr.  Emerson  died,  and  his  widow,  under  the  self- 
deluding  plea  that  her  grief  could  find  solace  only 
in  other  climes,  resolved  to  spend  in  traveling  the 
money  with  which  her  husband's  death  had  dow- 
ered her.  Dade  Emerson  entered  upon  the  hotel 
life  of  the  wanderer  with  an  enthusiasm  her  black 
gowns  could  hardly  conceal.  They  tried  the  south 
for  her  mother's  asthma,  and  the  north  for  her  hay- 
fever;  they  journeyed  to  California  for  the  good 
the  climate  was  sure  to  do  her  lungs,  and  they 

82 


On  the  Stump  83 

crossed  the  Atlantic  to  take  the  baths  at  Wies- 
baden for  her  rheumatism. 

While  her  mother  devoted  Herself  to  a  querulous 
celebration  of  her  complaints,  Dade  led  what  is 
known  as  the  active  out-door  life.  She  learned  to 
row,  and  to  swim;  she  won  a  medal  by  her  tennis 
playing,  and  she  developed  a  romping  health  that 
showed  in  the  sparkle  of  her  dark  eye,  in  the  flush 
of  her  brown  cheek,  in  the  swing  of  her  full  arm 
or  the  beautiful  play  of  the  muscles  in  her  strong, 
shoulders  as  she  strode  in  her  free  and  graceful 
way  along  the  street  or  across  the  room.  She 
climbed  Mont  Blanc;  she  wished  to  try  the  Mat- 
terhorn,  but  the  grave  secretary  of  the  Alpine  Club 
denied  her  permission  when  she  dragged  her 
breathless  mother  one  summer  up  to  Zermatt  to  try 
for  this  distinction. 

In  the  summer  under  notice,  her  mother  had 
declared  that  she  must  see  Grand  Prairie  once 
more  before  she  died,  and  they  had  come  home, 
and  thrown  open  the  old  house  for  its  first  occu- 
pancy in  two  years.  When  the  Emersons  arrived 
at  Grand  Prairie,  Dade  had  embraced  Emily  fer- 
vidly, and  the  two  girls  had  vowed  that  their  old 
intimacy  must  immediately  be  reestablished  on  its 
ancient  footing.  With  her  objective  interest  in  life, 
Dade  had  no  difficulty  in  giving  her  demeanor  to- 
wards Emily  the  spontaneity  it  is  sometimes  neces- 
sary to  feign  towards  the  friends  of  a  bygone  day 
and  stage  of  development;  and  so  she  swung  into 
the  wide  hall,  and  fairly  grappled  Emily,  who  had 
come  to  meet  her. 


84  The  13  th   District 

"I've  bean  just  dying  to  see  you,  dyah,"  she  said, 
in  the  new  accent  she  had  acquired  while  in  Europe, 
which  was  half  Eastern,  half  English. 

She  kissed  Emily,  and  flung  herself  into  a  chair 
in  the  parlor  whither  Emily  was  already  pointing 
the  'way.  Her  fresh,  wholesome  personality,  her 
summer  garments,  the  very  atmosphere  of  strength 
and  health  she  breathed  were  welcome  stimulants 
to  Emily. 

"It's  downright  hot,  I  say,"  Dade  continued, 
wriggling  until  her  skirts  fluffed  out  all  over  the 
front  of  her  chair,  and  showed  the  plaid  hose  above 
the  low,  broad-heeled  shoes  she  wore.  She  glanced 
around  to  see  if  the  windows  were  open. 

"Beastly!"  she  ejaculated.  And  she  took  a  hand- 
kerchief and  polished  her  face  until  its  clean  tanned 
skin  shone. 

"I  say,"  she  went  on,  tossing  her  handkerchief 
into  her  lap,  "I  didn't  sleep  a  wink  thinking  about 
you  lahst  night.  I  had  to  run  ovah  to  see  you 
about  it  directly  I  could  leave  poor  mamma.  Isn't 
it  too—" 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  come,  dear,"  Emily 
got  in.  "I've  been  intending  to  have  you  over  to 
take  dinner  and  spend  the  day.  But  now  that  you 
are  back  for  good — " 

"Back  for  good!"  said  Dade.  ''Mais  non,  not  a 
bit  of  it.  Mamma  says  she  cawn't  enduah  this 
climate,  and  who  could?  We're  of?  directly  we  can 
decide  wheah  to  go.  She  wants  to  go  up  into  the 
White  Mountains,  but  I've  just  got  to  go  some 
place  wheah  they  have  golf  links,  don't  you  know? 


On  the  Stump  85 

The  truth  is,  Em,  its  impossible  in  this  stupid,  pro- 
vincial old  hole — I'll  be  every  bit  as  fat  as  mamma 
if  I  stay  hyah  a  minute  longah — " 

"You  miss  your  exercise?"  said  Emily,  lolling 
back  on  the  cushions  of  her  divan  in  an  indolence 
of  manner  that  told  how  remote  exercise  was  from 
her  wish  at  that  moment. 

"Don't  speak  the  word!"  cried  Dade,  pushing 
out  one  of  her  strong  hands  repellently.  "I  posi- 
tively cawn't  find  a  thing  to  do.  I  tried  for  a  cross- 
country walk  yesterday,  and  got  chased  by  a  stupid 
fahmah,  and  nearly  hooked  by  a  cow — to  say  noth- 
ing of  this  rich  Illinois  mud.  Mamma  owns  a  few 
hundred  acres  of  it,  Dicu  merci,  so  we  don't  have 
to  live  hyah  on  it,  though  if  the — what  do  you  say? 
— les  paysans — keep  on  crying  for  a  decrease  in 
rent  I  fawncy  you'll  see  me  back  hyah  actually  dig- 
ging in  it." 

The   picture   of  the    Emerson's   tenants   which 
Dade  drew  struck  a  pang  in  Emily's  sociological 
conscience.     She  pitied  the  girl  more  for  her  ina- 
bility to  estimate  the  evils  of  a  system  which  left 
her  free  to  wander  over  the  earth  seeking  that  ex- 
ercise   which  her    clamoring    muscles    demanded,  j 
while  those  upon  whose  labors  she  lived  had  to  j 
exercise  more  than  their  overwrought  muscles  re-  i 
quired  than  she  did  for  the  remote  prospect  of  her 
being  doomed  to  labor  on  the  corn  lands  of  Polk 
County. 

"I'd  go  down  to  Zimmerman's  saloon  and  bowl, 
if  it  wouldn't  shock  you  all  to  death.  But  tell  me, 
how  do  you  feel  about  it?" 


86  The  1 3th  District 

"About  what — your  need  of  exercise?" 

"Mon  Dicu,  no — about  the  terrible  expose  of 
that  interesting  protege  of  yours?  On  ne  poiirrait 
le  croire — c'cst  affreiix!" 

"Well,  no,"  Emily  said,  with  a  woeful  laugh,  "if 
I  understand  your  French," 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "I  thought  you  were 
so  deeply  interested  in  him.  Haven't  you  worked 
hard  to  give  him  some  sort  of  social  form,  getting 
him  to  dawnces  and  all  that  sort  of  thing?" 

"No,  not  to  dances,  Dade.    He  doesn't  dance." 

"Oh,  to  be  suah.  I  heahd  that — and  I  heahd — " 
she  gave  a  ringing  laugh — "I  heahd  that  he  was 
downright  jealous  when  you  went  to  visit  Sallie 
van  Stohn  in  St.  Louis  and  dawnced  with  all  those 
men  theah.  And  I  didn't  blame  him — those  St. 
Louis  men  are  raeally  lovely  dawncers,  bettah  than 
the  Chicago  men — ^they  have  the  mesure  but  not 
the  grace — though  the  St.  Louis  men  are  nothing 
at  all  to  the  German  officers  we  met  at  Berlin. 
Why,  my  dyah,  those  fellows  can  waltz  across  a 
ball  room  with  a  glass  of  wine  on  each  hand — 
raeally!"  She  stretched  out  her  well-turned  arms 
and  held  their  pink  palms  up,  to  picture  the  corset- 
ed terpsichorean.  "But  why  didn't  you  teach  him 
to  dawnce?" 

Emily  did  not  conceal  with  her  little  laugh  the 
blush  that  came  at  this  reminder  of  her  attempts 
to  overcome  Garwood's  pride,  which  had  rebelled 
at  the  indignity  of  displaying  his  lack  of  grace  in 
efforts  at  the  waltz  or  the  easier  two-step. 
"He  wouldn't  learn." 


On  the  Stump  87 

"How  stupid!     But  that's  nothing  now  to  this 
.  othah  thing.     Had  you  evah  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing?     I  thought  from  what  you  wrote  me  that 
he  was  the  soul  of  honah." 

"So  he  is!"  declared  Emily,  lifting  eyes  that 
blazed  a  defiance. 

"But  won't  it  injure  his  chawnces  of  election?" 

"No!"  Emily  fairly  cried  in  her  determined  op- 
position to  the  thought^  "no,  it  won't."  She  sat 
upright  on  the  divan,  and  leaned  toward  her  friend 
with  a  little  gasp. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  think  it  true, 
Dade?" 

Dade  ceased  to  rock.  She  looked  at  Emily  with 
her  black  eyes  sparkling  through  their  long  lashes, 
and  then  she  squeezed  her  wrists  between  her 
knees  and  said: 

"Emily  Harkness,  you're  in  love  with  that  man!" 

Emily's  gaze  fell.  She  thrust  out  her  lower  lip 
a  little,  and  gave  an  almost  imperceptible  toss 
to  her  brown  head.  She  stroked  a  silken  pillow 
at  her  side.  Dade's  eyes  continued  to  sparkle  at 
her  through  their  long  lashes,  and  she  felt  the 
conviction  of  their  gaze. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last,  gently,  "I  am  going  to 
marry  him." 

Dade  continued  to  gaze  a  moment  longer,  and 
then  she  swooped  over  to  the  divan.  She  hugged 
Emily  in  her  strong  young  arms,  almost  squeezing 
the  breath  from  the  girl's  body. 

"Bless  you,  I  knew  it!"  And  then  she  kissed 
her,  but  suddenly  held  her  away  at  arm's  length 


88  The  13  th   District 

as  if  she  were  a  child,  and  said  with  the  note  of 
reproach  that  her  claim  as  a  life-long  intimate 
gave  her  voice:   "But  why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"You're  the  first  I've  told  except  papa,"  said 
Emily. 

"C'cst  vrai?"  said  Dade,  her  jealousy  appeased. 
"Then  it's  all  right,  dyah — and  it's  splendid,  I 
think.  He's  a  typical  American,  you  know,  and 
the  very  man  you  ought  to  marry.  Mamma's  been 
afraid  I'd  marry  one  of  those  foreignehs,  and  so 
have  I — but  it's  splendid.  And  I  tell  you — "  she 
settled  herself  for  confidences — "I'll  come  back 
from  anywheah  to  the  wedding,  to  be  your  maid  of 
honah — just  as  we  used  to  plan — don't  you  know? 
Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  and  I  think  it's  noble  in  you; 
it's  just  hke  you.  It'll  elect  him,  too,  if  you  an- 
nounce it  right  away.  I  say,  I'll  give  a  luncheon 
for  you,  and  we  can  announce  it  then — no,  that 
wouldn't  be  correct,  would  it?  We'd  have  to  have 
the  luncheon  hyah — but  it'll  elect  him.  It  would 
in  England,  where  the  women  go  in  for  politics 
more  than  you  do,  n'cst  ce  pas?" 

She  always  spoke  of  her  own  land  from  the  de- 
tached standpoint  a  long  residence  abroad,  and 
sometimes  a  short  one,  gives  to  expatriates. 

"And— let's  plan  it  all  out  now,  dyah.  Will  you 
have  it  at  St.  Louis,  and  Doctah  Storey?— why- 
there — there  now " 

Emily  had  pillowed  her  head  on  Dade's  full 
bosom,  and  her  long-restrained  tears  had  flooded 
forth.  The  larger  girl,  with  the  motherly  instinct 
that  comes  with  full  brimming  health,  wrapped  her 


On  the  Stump  89 

friend  in  her  arms,  and  soothed  her,  though  dis- 
engaging one  hand  now  and  then  to  wipe  the  per- 
spiration that  bedewed  her  own  brow.  The  two 
girls  sat  there  in  silence,  rocking  back  and  forth 
among  the  pillows  in  the  darkened  parlor,  until 
Dade  suddenly  broke  the  spell  by  sitting  bolt  up- 
right and  exclaiming: 

"Mon  Dicii,  there  comes  that  big  De  Freese 
girl.    I'm  going." 

And  she  rose  to  effect  her  incontinent  desertion 
at  once.  Turning  in  from  the  street,  a  large^  tran- 
quil blonde,  gowned  and  gloved  and  bearing  a 
chiffon  parasol  to  keep  the  sun  from  her  milky 
complexion,  was  calmly  and  coolly  crossing  the 
yard. 

"She's  got  call  in  her  eye!"  exclaimed  Dade. 
And  then  she  hurried  on,  before  she  fled,  to  say  all 
she  had  left  unsaid: 

"I'll  be  ovah  this  aftahnoon,  and  we'll  plan  it  all 
out — and  I'm  going  to  make  mamma  spend  next 
wintah  in  Washington.  It'll  help  some  of  her  dis- 
eases— what's  the  climate  of  Washington  good  for, 
do  you  know?" 

But  Emily  had  risen  to  glance  out  the  window, 
and  then,  with  her  hands  to  her  face,  had  fled  from 
the  room.  Dade  heard  the  patter  of  her  feet  on 
the  stairs  as  she  gathered  up  her  skirts  and  soared 
aloft.  And  then  in  her  surprise  she  looked  out 
the  window  again  and  saw  a  tall  man,  with  a 
broad  black  hat  slouched  over  his  eyes,  taking 
long  steps  across  the  lawn.  He  seemed  boorishly 
to  be  set  on  beating  the  mild  blonde  to  the  door. 


go  The  i3th  District 

The  two  callers  gained  the  veranda  at  the  same 
moment,  before  the  bell  could  be  rung  to  sum- 
mon the  maid.  As  she  left  the  parlor  Dade  snatched 
her  hat  from  her  head  .and  sent  it  sailing  across  to 
the  divan,  and  then,  at  the  door,  she  smiled  and 
said : 

"Good-mohning,  Miss  de  Freese.  Miss  Hawk- 
ness?  No,  she's  ill,  and  isn't  visible  this  mohn- 
ing.  I'm  staying  with  heh.  She'll  be  downright 
sorry — and  Mr.  Hawkness,  sir,"  she  turned  to  Gar- 
wood, "left  wohd  to  have  you  wait.  He'll  be  hyah 
directly.  Just  step  into  the  drawing-room  please," 
she  smiled,  but  with  a  little  scowl,  at  the  obtuse 
politician,  who  seemed  disposed  to  dispute  with 
her,  though  under  the  influence  of  her  eyes,  he 
obeyed,  and  when  he  had  passed  in,  she  continued: 

"It's  too  bad.  Miss  de  Freese,  raeally — and 
you've  had  such  a  walk  this  wahm  mohning.  Oh, 
nothing  serious  at  all,  just  one  of  heh  headaches, 
you  know;  I'll  tell  heh — she'll  be  awfully  disap- 
pointed." 

She  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

"Pahdon,  sir,"  she  said,  "1  left  my  hat."  And 
she  crossed  to  the  divan. 

"Did  I  understand  you  to  say  that  Emil — ^that 
Miss  Harkness  was " 

"I'll  tell  heh;   she'll  come  right  down." 

"But  you  said  Mister  Harkness  had  left " 

Dade  smiled  the  superior  smile  of  the  socially 
perfect. 

"You  possibly  misundahstood  me,  sir;  I  said 
Miss  Harkness  would  be  down." 


On  the  Stump  91 

She  bowed  herself  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Gar- 
wood with  one  more  perplexity  added  to  those 
that  were  already  accumulating  too  rapidly  for 
him. 

Dade  went  up  the  staircase  and  to  Emily's  room. 
The  girl  was  standing  by  her  door,  her  hands 
clasped  and  raised  in  expectation  to  her  freshly 
powdered  face. 

^'Le  voila!"  said  Dade,  pointing  tragically  over 
the  balusters,  and  then  she  went  down  the  back 
stairs. 


X 


GARWOOD,  as  he  sat  in  the  cool  drawing- 
room  that  morning,  rehearsed  again,  and,  as 
he  suddenly  remembered,  for  the  last  time, 
the  scene  he  was  about  to  enact  with  Emily.  He 
had  thought  the  matter  all  out,  and  with  his  quick 
perception  of  the  theatrical  quality  of  any  situation, 
he  had  prepared  for  it  just  as  he  would  for  a  public 
speech  or,  when  he  had  the  time,  for  an  argument 
before  a  jury.  As  he  sat  this  morning,  taking  his 
eye  for  a  moment  from  the  hall  door  to  glance 
through  the  open  window  into  the  yard,  he  beheld 
old  Jasper  raking  the  lawn,  heard  him  talking  to 
himself  in  an  expostulatory  tone,  and  knew  that  the 
old  man  was  just  putting  the  finishing  touches  to 
some  imaginary  opponent  he  had  vanquished  in  an 
argument.  And  Garwood  smiled,  and  felt  a  sym- 
pathy with  the  old  fellow;  he,  too,  was  given  to  the 
practice  of  talking  to  himself;  if  the  speeches  he 
delivered  when  walking  home  at  night  could  only 
be  reproduced  on  the  stump,  he  would  have  no 
fears  whatever  of  the  result. 

As  he  looked  out  the  window  he  became  tele- 
pathically  aware  of  a  presence,  and  turned  to  be- 
hold Emily  standing  in  the  wide  door  that  led  into 
the  hall,  parting  the  heavy  curtains  with  trembling 
hands.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  took  a  step  to- 
wards her.  She  advanced  to  meet  him,  she  stretched 
92 


On  the  Stump  93 

out  her  hands,  she  took  him  by  the  arms ;  she  turned 
him  half  around  that  the  hght  might  fall  full  in  his 
face,  and  then  she  let  her  eyes  melt  into  his.  And 
before  he  could  move,  or  say  one  word  of  all  he  had 
intended  to  say,  her  face  gladdened  like  the  sky  at 
dawn,  and  she  smiled  and  said: 

"Ah,  Jerome — I  knew  it,  I  knew  it!" 

And  then  she  hid  herself  against  his  breast,  and 
he  put  his  arms  about  her. 

"Did  you  ever  believe  it  for  one  little  instant?" 
he  whispered,  bending  over  her,  after  he  had  drunk 
to  the  uttermost  the  ecstasy  and  the  anguish  of 
that  moment. 

"Not  for  one  little  instant,"  she  whispered.  "Oh, 
not  for  one  little  instant!    I  knew  it  couldn't  be!" 

And  Garwood,  looking  over  the  masses  of  her 
hair,  again  saw  old  Jasper  working  away  In  the 
yard.  He  was  singing  now,  and  Garwood  knew 
that  ever  after  in  his  memory  the  aged  negro  would 
live  in  association  with  that  scene. 

When  they  were  sitting  on  the  divan,  side  by 
side,  and  the  morning:  was  gone,  Emily  asked  him, 
out  of  the  half-affected  simplicity  Garwood  loved 
to  have  her  adopt,  as  most  men  do,  because  of 
the  tribute  to  their  superior  intelligence  it  im- 
phes  : 

"Jerome,  what  is  a  roorback?" 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  said: 

"A  roorback,  dear,  is  a  lie  told  because  of  the 
necessities  of  politics." 

"And  are  lies  necessary  in  politics?" 

"Always,  it  seems,"  he  said. 


XI 


A  MAN  whose  figure  had  taken  on  the  full 
contour  of  a  prosperous  maturity  sat  at  his 
desk,  reflectively  drawing  little  geometrical 
designs  on  a  pad  of  paper.  The  abundance  of  his 
prosperousness  was  indicated  in  every  appointment 
of  his  law  offices  no  less  than  in  his  own  person, 
for  they  reflected  the  modern  metropolitan  style  of 
Chicago  rather  than  the  fashion  of  an  older  day  in 
central  Illinois,  where  a  bare  floor,  a  flat  table,  and 
a  rough  set  of  bookshelves  bearing  up  Blackstone 
and  Kent,  Chitty  and  Starkie,  and  the  Illinois  di- 
gests and  reports,  were  considered  sufficient  fur- 
nishing. His  silvery  hair  was  cropped  close  with  a 
half  hangover  his  clear  forehead, and  his  gray  beard 
was  as  carefully  trimmed  as  his  hair;  in  the  lapel 
of  the  gray  coat  that  set  his  shoulders  off  stoutly, 
was  a  red  carnation.  He  wore  a  fresh  carnation 
every  day ;  where  he  got  them  was  ever  a  mystery 
to  the  people  of  Clinton. 

Judge  Bromley  had  resigned  from  the  bench  of 
the  Circuit  Court  to  become  the  general  attorney 
of  a  railroad  than  ran  up  out  of  Egypt  to  tap  the 
central  portion  of  Illinois,  and  he  was  the  local 
attorney  for  a  number  of  other  roads.  His  rail- 
roads would  have  been  pleased  to  have  him  in  Con- 
gress, no  doubt,  though  they  would  have  preferred 
to  have  him  on  the  bench  of  the  United  States 
94 


On  the  Stump  95 

Court.  And  it  was  with  this  prospect  in  veiled 
view  that  he  had  consented  to  run  for  Congress  in 
a  district  where  the  normal  majority  was  greatly 
against  him,  knowing  that  his  sacrifices  would  com- 
mend him  to  the  administration  at  Washington  in 
case  the  national  ticket  of  his  party  was  successful. 

Another  man  sat  with  Bromley  in  his  private 
office  that  October  morning.  He  sat  tentatively, 
if  not  timidly,  on  the  edge  of  his  chair,  for  the  con- 
versation had  not  reached  such  a  stage  of  confi- 
dential warmth  on  the  lawyer's  part  as  warranted 
the  man  in  lounging  at  more  familiar  ease  in  its 
leather  depths. 

The  man  was  McFarlane,  and  he  was  the  chair- 
man of  the  congressional  committee  of  the  party 
that  had  nominated  Bromley  to  stand  in  the  Thir- 
teenth against  Garwood. 

'T  have  already  sent  my  checks  to  the  chairman 
of  each  county  committee  in  payment  of  my  as- 
sessments, Mr.  McFarlane,"  the  lawyer  said  at 
length. 

"Sure,  I  know  that.  Judge,"  said  McFarlane, 
"but  things  is  changed  now — I  tell  you  you've  got 
more'n  a  fightin'  chance  to  win  out." 

"You  think  this  story  of  Mr.  Garwood's  irregu- 
larities— his  alleged  irregularities,"  he  corrected 
himself  with  a  lawyer's  absurd  habit  of  care  in  his 
words,  "will  seriously  impair  his  prospects,  then?" 

"W'y,  sure,  why  wouldn't  it?"  McFarlane  urged. 
"We  can  make  it." 

"Ah,  make  it,"  observed  Bromley.  "But  how, 
if  you  will  oblige  me?    You  must  pardon  my  lack 


0  The  13th  District 

of  knowledge  of  the — ah — technique  of  pohtics, 
Mr.  McFarlane." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  Judge,"  McFarlane  hast- 
ened to  say,  with  a  reassuring  generosity  of  soul. 
"How'll  we  make  it?  Why,  use  it — that's  how; 
we'll  make  Jerry  defend  his  record  in  the  House. 
We'll  get  the  people  to  see  it — that's  how." 

"But  will  the  people  believe  it?  They  are  slow, 
you  know,  to  believe  these  stories  of  boodling,  as 

1  believe  it  is  called.  The  newspapers  have  a  good 
deal  to  say  of  it  from  time  to  time,  but  I  doubt  if 
the  people  take  it  much  more  seriously  than  the 
rest  of  the  current  and  conventional  jokes  of  the 
press.  Do  you  think  they'll  believe  it?  That  ques- 
tion occurs  to  me  as  material  at  this  point  of 
our " 

"Believe  it!  Do  you  think  these  farmers  around 
here'd  refuse  to  believe  anything  when  you  tell 
'em  the  corporations  is  behind  it?  Don't  you  think 
they  won't  believe  it!" 

"You  have  no  doubt,  then,  of  its  authenticity?" 

"Oh,  course,  I  don't  say  as  to  that.  Jerry's  a 
good  fellow,  all  right  enough.  I  ain't  sayin',  be- 
tween ourselves,  what  he  done  at  Springfield — it 
's  none  o'  my  business,  you  know." 

"I  presume  not." 

"You  ought  to  know  as  much  about  it  as  me, 
anyway,  Judge.  You're  a  corp'ration  lawyer — 
you've  been  to  Springfield  yourself,  I  reckon." 

The  lawyer  winced,  and  the  natural  ruddiness 
of  his  healthy  skin  showed  under  his  white  beard 
a  deeper  hue. 


On  the  Stump  97 

"I  have  only  been  there  to  appear  in  the  Su- 
preme or  the  Appellate  Court,  Mr.  McFarlane;  I 
have  no  concern  with  any  legislative  lobbying  my 
clients  may  do,  if  they  do  any." 

"Oh,  sure — 'scuse  me.  Judge — that's  done  by  the 
Chicago  lawyers,  of  course;  I  didn't  stop  to  think." 
McFarlane  had  almost  settled  himself  in  his  chair, 
but  at  this  contretemps  he  leaned  forward  again, 
and  then,  wishing  to  give  the  action  the  efifect  of 
interest  rather  than  of  embarrassment,  he  hast- 
ened on: 

"But  that  ain't  all,  by  a  long  shot.  You  know 
Sprague — Con  Sprague?" 

"The  present  incumbent?    Of  course." 

"Well,  you  know,  Jerry  beat  him  for  renomina- 
tion,  or  Jim  Rankin  did  it  fer  'im.  Garwood  had 
promised  Sprague  to  hold  the  Polk  County  dele- 
gation fer  'im,  he  says,  and,  well,  Rankin  turned 
a  trick  at  the  Clinton  convention  that  euchred 
Sprague  out  of  the  nomination.  Course,  Jim  turned 
round  and  tried  to  square  it  by  throwin'  the  legisla- 
tive nomination  to  Sprague's  brother-in-law,  Hank 
Wilson;  but  still,  Sprague's  sore." 

"He  is?" 

"You  bet  he  is.  He  hasn't  hfted  a  finger  in  the 
whole  campaign,  an'  I  heerd  last  night  from  Al 
Granger,  who's  over  from  Sullivan,  that  his  fel- 
lows over  there  are  openly  knifing  Garwood,  and 
that  gives  us  a  chance  to  carry  Moultrie.  Well," 
McFarlane  paused  to  swallow,  "we  can  carry  De- 
Witt  here — it's  your  home  county — and  the  major- 
ity against  us  is  less  than  a  hundred ;  we  have  a  good 


98  The  I  3th   District 

chance  in  Piatt,  an'  they're  shaky  about  Logan, 
particularly  down  in  Millwood  to'nship.  Garwood 
had  a  meetin'  there  the  other  day  which  was  a  frost 
— a  change  of  a  hundred  an'  fifty  votes,  an'  you've 
got  'em.  Why,  I  tell  you,  man,  it's  the  chance  of 
your  life.    You  can  win  out." 

McFarlane  spoke  with  the  enthusiasm  of  that 
confidence  into  which  a  politician  can  work  him- 
self when  he  begins  to  juggle  the  handy  figures 
of  old  election  returns,  and  some  of  his  warmth 
was  communicated  to  the  candidate,  who  felt  his 
blood  tingle,  and  his  heart  rise  in  anticipation.  He 
had  never  allowed  himself  to  think  of  the  possi- 
bility of  his  election,  until  that  moment;  but  that 
moment  was  the  fatal  one  that  comes  to  every  can- 
didate, at  a  certain  stage  in  his  campaign,  when 
he  begins  to  indulge  in  dreams  of  victory.  And  yet 
Bromley  was  a  wary  man  and  he  shrank  again,  in 
his  habit  of  judicial  deliberation. 

"You  speak  encouragingly,  Mr.  McFarlane,"  he 
said,  "but  I  do  not  quite  share  your  confidence. 
I  am  not  the  man  to  indulge  in  illusions.  You 
realize,  of  course,  that  I  took  the  nomination  at 
some  sacrifice,  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  party.  I 
had  no  thought  of  being  elected  with  the  district 
organized  as  it  is  under  the  present  apportionment 
act." 

"Yes,  I  know,  they  carved  the  district  out  for 
Sprague  in  their  last  gerrymander,  an'  then 
Sprague  got  thrown  down  fer  the  nomination — ■ 
that's  why  he's  so  sore." 

"What  plan  do  you  propose?" 


On  the  Stump  99 

"Well/'  said  McFarlane,  "just  what  I  told  you. 
We  ought  to  poll  every  county  in  the  district,  make 
a  separate  an'  distinct  poll  fer  ourselves,  independ- 
ent of  the  county  committees,  and  then — get  out 
the  vote.    It'll  take  money,  of  course." 

Judge  Bromley  was  tapping  his  pencil  lightly  on 
the  desk. 

"Do  you  think  I  should  make  a  personal  canvass 
of  the  district?" 

McFarlane  hesitated. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "that  might  be  a  good  thing  a 
little  later."  He  looked  at  the  judge's  clothes, 
made  by  a  Chicago  tailor,  as  he  supposed,  though 
they  were  made  by  a  New  York  tailor,  at  his  red 
carnation,  at  his  rimless  pince-nes,  and  thought  of 
his  campaigning  in  the  rural  districts. 

"But  my  idee  fer  the  present  'uld  be  a  still  hunt. 
We  can  work  up  to  the  brass  band  and  the  red 
fire  gradually,  and  wind  up  in  a  blaze  o'  glory, 
after  we  get  'em  on  the  run.    See?" 

"How  much  will  all  this  cost?" 

"Oh,  well,  now^  that's  a  question.  Course,  the 
boys  ain't  in  politics  fer  the'r  health,  an'  the  more 
money  we  have  the  more " 

Bromley,  at  this  bald  suggestion  of  a  raid  on 
his  pocket-book,  flushed^  this  time  angrily.  He 
dropped  his  pencil  and  tightened  his  fist,  laying  the 
thick  of  it  heavily  on  the  edge  of  his  desk.  Then 
he  wheeled  around,  and  said,  his  eyes  contracting 
behind  his  rimless  aristocratic  glasses: 

"Look  here,  McFarlane,  this  must  be  a  plain 
business  proposition.    I  have  no  barrel,  as  you  call 


100  The  13  th  District 

it,"  — though  McFadane  had  said  nothing  about  a 
barrel — "and  I've  already  given  all  I  can  afford 
to  the  campaign.  I  would  be  v^illing,  perhaps, 
as  a  further  sacrifice  to  the  party  and  my  princi- 
ples, to  increase  my  contribution,  but  I'd  w^ant 
to  know  just  what  was  done  with  it;  I'd  want  every 
bill  audited  by  a  responsible  committee;  I'd  want 
it  all  used  properly  and  effectively ;  in  other  words, 
I'd  expect  results — do  you  understand?" 

"Oh,  course,  Judge,  just  as  you  say.  It's  your 
campaign,  you  know.  I'm  only  showin'  you  where 
you  can  win  out,  that's  all.  If  you  don't  care 
nothin'  about  goin'  to  Congress — why,  all  right.  It 
needn't  cost  much." 

"But  hoiv  much,  that's  the  question?"  demanded 
Bromley. 

"Oh,  well,  three  or  four  thousand,  perhaps; 
maybe  five.  Hell!  I  can't  tell  exactly.  It's  no 
cinch,  the  amount  ain't.  A  couple  o'  thousand 
'uld  do  fer  a  starter,  till  we  could  tell  how  she  de- 
veloped." 

Bromley  received  McFarlane's  estimate  in  si- 
lence, and  looked  somewhere  out  of  his  window 
for  support.    McFarlane  sat  and  eyed  him  keenly. 

"Has  Garwood  any  means?"  the  lawyer  asked 
presently,  and  then  immediately  answered  his  own 
question  by  observing:  "I  suppose  not,  though; 
his  practice,  as  I  suppose  he  calls  it,  is  confined  to 
the  personal  injury  business."  The  judge  said  this 
with  a  corporation  lawyer's  contempt  for  one  who 
has  no  money  and  whose  practice  is  confined  to 
the  speculative  side  of  personal  injury  cases. 


On  the  Stump  loi 

"No,  Jerry's  poor,"  said  McFarlane.  •  ^'iiat  I  hear 
it  rumored  that  old  Ethan  Harkness's  puttin'  up 
some  fer  'im." 

"Ethan  Harkness?  The  banker  over  at  Grand 
Prairie?" 

"Yep." 

"Why  should  he  provide  means  for  Garwood's 
campaign?" 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me — that's  what  the  boys  says. 
Seems  to  me,  though,  I  heerd  somethin'  about 
Jerry's  goin'  to  marry  his  daughter." 

"H-m-m-m!"  the  judge  said,  and  then  he  was 
silent  for  a  while. 

"Somebody  would  have  to  put  up  fer  'im,"  Mc- 
Farlane continued.  "I  hear  he  hain't  paid  none  o' 
his  campaign  assessments  yet,  an'  that  hain't 
helpin'  him  none.  That'll  be  another  thing  in  your 
favor,  too,  Judge — unless  old  Harkness  does  hear 
an'  heed  the  Mac'donian  cry." 

"I  hardly  can  imagine  Ethan  Harkness  giving 
away  money  for  any  purpose,  much  less  a  purpose 
of  that  sort,"  said  the  judge,  with  the  first  twinkle 
in  his  eye  that  had  sparkled  behind  his  lenses  since 
McFarlane  had  mentioned  money.  "And  I  don't 
place  much  credence  in  that  story  about  Garwood's 
wedding  Miss  Flarkness.  The  Harknesses  are 
really  a  very  good  family,  as  I  remember  to  have 
heard  Mrs.  Bromley  say." 

McFarlane  did  not  care  to  venture  on  the  un- 
safe ground  of  society^  and  so  was  silent.  The 
judge,  too,  was  silent.    He  was  pondering, 

"Well,  Mr.  McFarlane/'  he  said  at  length,  "I'll 


102  The  13th  District 

consider  your'  suggestion  carefully,  and  you  may 
call  to-morrow  mcrning,  if  you  will  be  so  good, 
rvvlien  I  v'^ha]l'  liavu  a  conclusion  ready  for  you." 

The  judge  looked  at  McFarlane  with  the  glance 
that  terminates  the  interviews  of  a  busy  man,  espe- 
cially a  man  busy  in  corporation  interests,  where 
the  personal  equation  may  be  largely  ignored,  and 
waited  for  McFarlane  to  leave. 

McFarlane  went  down  the  stairs,  chuckling. 

"He  took  the  bit  all  right,"  he  said  to  the  man 
who  was  waiting  for  him.  "Let's  go  have  a  nice 
little  drink." 


XII 

ETHAN  HARKNESS  was  sitting  in  his 
library,  as  the  architect  who  had  remodeled 
his  old  house  had  named  the  pleasant  apart- 
ment that  opened  off  the  living-room.  Here,  out  of 
deference  to  the  idea,  Emily  had  her  books,  as  well 
as  the  few  her  father  read,  disposed  upon  low 
shelves;  and  here  the  old  man  passed  his  hours  at 
home,  because,  as  he  loved  to  say,  in  his  whimsical 
pretense  that  he  was  in  the  way,  he  would  bother 
no  one.  His  habit  was  to  sit  here  every  evening 
and  smoke  his  cigar  over  his  newspaper.  Perhaps 
he  would  read  some  book  Emily  had  urged  upon 
him,  though  he  never  liked  the  books  she  recom- 
mended. Once  in  every  year  he  read  Scott's  novels 
through,  at  least  he  was  one  of  those  persons  of 
whom  that  highly  colored  tale  is  told.  Emily,  in 
her  new  appreciation  of  the  realistic,  had  joined  in 
the  cultured  revolt  against  the  romantic  school,  and 
would  not  own  to  the  least  respect  for  Scott.  Once 
in  a  while,  when  her  father,  in  his  devices  to  induce 
her  to  read  the  Wizard,  would  complain  of  his 
eyes  hurting  him,  and  ask  her  to  read  Rob  Roy 
to  him,  she  would  do  so  until  he  nodded,  and  then 
when  he  had  gone  to  bed,  would  take  the  book  to 
her  room  and  read  until  the  house  was  still  and 
cold  with  the  silence  and  chill  of  midnight,  so  that 
she  was  afraid  to  move.  But  such  occasions  she 
103 


104  The  13  th  District 

declared  to  be  literary  debauches,  and  would  tell 
her  father  at  breakfast  that  she  was  ashamed  of 
herself. 

He  was  sitting  thus  one  evening,  under  the  lamp, 
its  soft  mellow  light  falling  on  his  silver  hair; 
his  glasses  far  down  upon  his  high-bridged  nose, 
his  book  held  up  before  them.  He  breathed  heav- 
ily as  he  read,  and  Emily,  pausing  an  instant  in 
the  doorway,  gazed  upon  him,  thinking,  with  a  love 
that  to  her  had  a  touch  of  pathos,  of  all  his  kindly 
ways. 

"All  alone,  as  usual?"  she  said. 

The  old  man  took  off  his  glasses  slowly,  closed 
his  book  upon  them  to  mark  his  place,  and  then 
looked  gravely  up,  waiting  for  her  to  speak, 

"Father/'  she  said,  "I've  something  to  tell  you." 

The  tone  was  one  to  alarm  the  old  man^  and  he 
sighed.  He  had  reached  the  time  of  life  when  he 
dreaded  change,  and  her  tone  had  the  note  of 
change  in  it. 

She  sat  down  in  a  little  rocking-chair  before  him, 
knitting  her  fingers  together,  her  white  hands 
lying  in  her  lap.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  ring 
that  sparkled  on  her  finger — a  ring  that  Garwood 
had  bought,  on  credit,  at  Maxwell  the  jeweler's, 
that  morning.  Harkness  waited  for  her  to  speak 
with  the  same  gravity  with  which  he  had  waited 
for  Garwood  to  speak  an  evening  long  ago,  when 
the  young  man  had  ventured  in  upon  him,  trying  to 
assume  a  dignity  the  beating  of  his  heart  threat- 
ened, just  as  the  beating  of  the  old  man's  heart 
now    threatened    the    gravity    he    had    assumed. 


On  the  Stump  105 

Though  there  was  a  difference;  the  old  man  was 
aware  that  it  was  not  well  for  him  that  his  heart 
should  beat  as  it  was  beating  in  that  moment. 

"Father,"  the  girl  said,  twirling  the  ring  on  her 
finger,  the  light  from  the  lamp  flashing  a  dozen 
spectra  from  the  facets  of  the  diamond,  "Jerome 
and  I  are  going  to  be  married." 

The  old  man  made  no  reply. 

"Soon,"  she  added,  thinking  he  liad  not  caught 
the  full  significance  of  her  words. 

"Soon,"  he  said,  in  hollow  repetition.  But  he 
did  not  turn  his  head  or  move. 

He  had  expected  it  some  day,  he  had  even 
wished  it,  for  in  his  old-fashioned  conservatism  he 
did  not  like  to  think  of  Emily  as  an  old  maid,  but 
he  had  hoped  that  it  would  be  a  day  long  in  com- 
ing. 

Emily  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him.  His 
hair  seemed  whiter,  his  face  suddenly  older,  he  ap- 
peared so  lonely.  As  she  looked  a  tear  oozed 
from  his  eye  and  slid  down  his  cheek  and  beard. 
And  then  she  leaned  forward,  folded  her  arms  on 
his  knees,  pillowed  her  head  upon  them,  and  wept. 

The  old  m.an  placed  his  hand  upon  her  coils  of 
hair,  patting  them  softly.  But  he  was  silent.  The 
mood  passed,  the  old  man  possessed  himself,  laid 
his  book  on  the  table,  and  sighed  with  relief, 
as  if  at  the  end  of  some  painful  scene.  He  grew 
restless,  but  the  girl  held  him;  drew  closer,  em- 
braced him  passionately  at  the  last,  and  cried: 

"But  I  won't  leave  you,  father,  I  won't — I  won't! 
It'll  be  Just  the  same  for  us — tell  me  it  will!" 


I06  The  13  th  District 

The  old  man  smiled. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "that  part  of  it'll  be  all  right. 
But  tell  me — what's  the  rush?" 

"Why,  father,  there  isn't  any  rush — only,  don't 
you  know  how  every  one's  against  him  just  now?" 

"Humph!"  he  said,  "not  if  the  reports  of  his 
meetings  is  correct,  they  hain't." 

"Well,  I  know;  but  they  tell  such  stories  about 
him,  and  this  horrible  roorback — isn't  that  what 
they  call  it?" 

"Depends  on  who  you  mean  by  they/'  he  an- 
swered. 

"Well,  you  know,"  she  said,  in  the  assumption 
that  avoided  explanations,  "I  want  to  show  them 
that  I  believe  in  him,  anyway." 

"That's  like  you,  Em,"  he  said,  smiling  at  her. 
"It's  like  your  mother,  too." 

She  was  touched  by  this.  He  seldom  spoke  of 
her  mother.  And  she  drew  nearer  to  him,  and 
ran  her  fingers  fondly  through  his  white  hair. 

"Have  you  been  thinking  of  her?"  she  asked, 
with  a  tender  reverence. 

"Some — to-night,"  he  said.  "She  stuck  up  for 
me  once."    And  then  he  was  silent  again. 

The  girl,  with  the  impatience  of  youth,  tried  to 
coax  him  away  from  his  sad  humor,  and  assumed 
a  happy  tone,  though  she  blinked  to  keep  back  her 
tears. 

"Oh,  it  won't  be  for  a  long  time,  really,  father- 
not  till  fall,  not  till  after  election,  anyway.  And  it 
shan't  make  any  difference,  shall  it?  No,  we'll  all 
be  so  happy  together.    You  and  Jerome  can  play 


On  the  Stump  107 

cards  in  the  evening — and  it'll  be  ever  so  much 
livelier  in  this  big,  empty  old  house." 

The  old  man  conceived  the  picture  she  imagined 
for  him,  but  one  of  his  grotesque  humors  came 
upon  him. 

"D'ye  think  Mother  Garwood 'II  like  the  board?" 
he  asked. 

"Father!"  Emily  protested,  "you'd  joke  at  a 
funeral!" 


XIII 


THE  seven  members  of  the  congressional  com- 
mittee, assembled  in  Judge  Bromley's  office, 
sat  in  a  circle  around  the  wall,  beneath  the 
pictures  of  Chief-justice  Marshall,  of  Daniel  Web- 
ster, and  of  Blackstone,  reflecting  in  their  faces, 
with  a  studied  effort  that  pained  them,  the  serious- 
ness of  those  jurists.  They  sat  in  silence,  looking 
now  and  then  one  at  another,  or  most  of  all  at  Mc- 
Farlane,  the  chairman,  who  by  virtue  of  his  office 
sat  nearest  the  roll-top  desk  of  the  judge,  and,  out 
of  a  disposition  to  show  the  ease  of  his  footing  with 
the  candidate,  carelessly  swung  back  and  forth  the 
revolving  bookcase,  which  creaked  under  its  load 
of  the  Illinois  Reports  and  Kinney's  Digest. 

The  members  of  the  committee  were  smoking 
cigars  from  a  box  the  judge  had  provided,  a  box  of 
five-cent  domestic  cigars,  which  fouled  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  private  office  with  their  thick 
white  smoke.  The  smoke  from  the  Havana  cigar 
the  judge  himself  was  smoking,  wriggled  upward 
in  a  blue  wraith  from  the  white  hand  that  held  it, 
and  the  judge  only  raised  the  cigar  to  his  lips  often 
enough  to  keep  it  alight,  and  as  if  to  aid  his  mental 
processes.  These  processes  were  doubtless  pro- 
found, for  he  bent  his  head,  and  wrinkled  his  brow, 
and  looked  intently  at  the  silver-mounted  furnish- 
ings of  his  desk.  He  had  already  sat  there  what 
io8 


On  the  Stump  109 

seemed  to  the  waiting  politicians  a  long  time,  and 
had  not  moved.  But  at  last  he  dropped  the  eraser 
with  which  he  had  been  playing  while  he  thought, 
and,  lightly  touching  the  revolving  bookcase,  for 
its  swing  and  creak  made  him  nervous,  he  gave  a 
judicial  cough. 

"I  have  asked  you  to  meet  here,  gentlemen,"  he 
began,  half  turning  in  his  swivel  chair,  "to  discuss 
some  features  of  my  campaign.  You,  all  of  you, 
no  doubt^  were  apprised,  at  the  convention  of  our 
party,  of  the  reluctance  I  felt  in  accepting  the 
nomination;  you,  all  of  you,  are  aware,  at  what 
personal  sacrifice  I  consented  to  allow  my  name 
to  be  used,  so  that  it  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  dis- 
cuss this  feature  of  the  case  at  this  time." 

The  judge  said  this  impressively,  with  his  brows 
lowered,  as  if  he  were  charging  a  jury. 

"Up  to  this  time,  it  has  not  seemed  to  me  advisa- 
ble to  make  an  active  personal  canvass,  and  as  you 
know,  I  have  not  done  so,  preferring  to  leave  to 
you  the  execution  of  such  plans  as  might  suggest 
themselves  to  the  consideration  of  your — ah — ex- 
cellent committee.  But  recently,  events  have  de- 
veloped that  induce  me  to  alter  any  resolutions  I 
may  have  formed  to  continue  in  such  a  course. 
You,  all  of  you,  are  acquainted  with  these  events, 
much  better  acquainted,  I  may  say,  than  I,  so  that 
I  need  not  touch  upon  them  in  detail.  Within  the 
last  two  or  three  weeks,  I  have  noticed  that  a 
strong  undercurrent  of  public  opinion  has  set  in 
toward  our  ticket."  The  judge  illustrated  the  un- 
dercurrent by  moving  his  hand  gracefully  along  at 


no  The  13  th  District 

a  horizontal  plane  above  the  floor.  "If  I  under- 
stand the  temper  of  our  people,  and  the  prevailing 
signs  of  the  times,  they  are  ready  for  a  change  in 
the  guidance  of  their  affairs — to  be  brief,  I  think 
that  we  have  an  excellent  chance  to  win." 

"You  bet  we  have,  Judge,"  broke  in  Hadley, 
from  Tazewell. 

The  judge  raised  his  head  and  looked  his  sur- 
prise at  Hadley,  as  if  to  resent  the  interruption, 
and  the  members  of  the  committee  turned  and 
looked  at  Hadley  severely.  Murch,  who  sat  next 
Hadley,  drove  an  elbow  into  the  man's  ribs,  and 
Hadley's  bronzed  face  became  a  deeper  shade. 

"As  I  observed,"  said  Bromley,  anxious  that  his 
observation  be  not  lost,  "I  think  we  have  an  excel- 
lent chance  of  winning,  better  than  we  have  had  in 
any  congressional  campaign  within  my  memory." 

The  judge  paused  here  to  let  the  conviction  that 
his  own  personality  had  produced  this  unusual 
political  condition  sink  into  the  minds  of  his  audi- 
tors.   And  then  he  resumed. 

"If  you  have  followed  me  thus  far,  gentlemen, 
you  will  be  prepared  for  the  announcement  I  am 
about  to  make." 

He  paused  again  impressively. 

"I  have  determined,  gentlemen,  to  enter  upon 
the  prosecution  of  a  vigorous  personal  campaign. 
In  short,  I  shall  take  the  stump." 

He  stopped,  and  looked  around  him.  The  com- 
mitteemen, not  expecting  him  to  leave  off  in  his 
address  so  soon,  were  not  prepared  for  its  end, 
and  so  had  to  bestir  themselves  and  simulate  a 


On  the  Stump  in 

proper  appreciation  of  the  effect  of  his  announce- 
ment. McFarlane  murmured  some  sort  of  ap- 
proval, and  his  words  were  repeated  around  the 
circle.  Judge  Bromley  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
with  his  elbow  on  his  desk. 

"I  shall  take  the  stump,"  he  repeated,  showing 
his  love  for  the  phrase,  which  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  see  in  newspapers  all  his  days  when  the 
doings  of  eminent  politicians  were  chronicled, 
"and  have  determined  to  open  my  campaign  in  Mr. 
— ah — Garwood's  own  county^  in  his  own  town, 
Grand  Prairie.  I  believe  you  are  the  committee- 
man for  Polk  County,  Mr.  Funk,  are  you  not?"  He 
turned  to  a  lank  man  leaning  his  long  body  for- 
ward, his  sharp  elbows  on  his  knees,  who  now 
looked  up  languidly. 

"Me?    I  reckon  I  am,"  he  said. 

"Very  well,"  the  judge  continued,  "can  we  ar- 
range for  a  meeting  in  your  county?" 

"Reckon  we  can,"  replied  Funk,  "if  we  can  raise 
the  price." 

The  judge  scowled. 

"We  shall,  of  course,  provide  for  that,"  he  said. 
At  the  words  Funk  straightened  up,  and  a  revival 
of  interest  was  apparent  in  the  other  members  of 
the  group. 

"What  would  you  suggest — an  open-air  meet- 
ing?" 

"Don't  know  as  I  would/'  said  Funk.  "Open-air 
meetin's  is  dangerous — mightn't  be  enough  turn 
out  to  fill  all  out-doors.     Course,  we  might  have 


112  The  13th  District 

a  torch-light  percession,  to  draw  a  crowd — if  we 
had  the  torches  and  a  band." 

"That  can  be  arranged,"  said  the  judge. 

"Might  have  the  meetin'  in  the  op'ra  house," 
Funk  went  on.  "What  d'ye  think,  Neal?"  He  de- 
ferred to  McFarlane. 

"Seems  to  me  the  op'ra  house  would  be  safer," 
said  McFarlane. 

"That,  of  course,  is  .a  matter  to  be  considered," 
said  Bromley.  "But  at  any  rate,  I  wish  to  have 
meetings  announced  in  all  the  counties." 

The  silence  which  had  oppressed  the  members  of 
the  committee  having  been  broken  by  the  words 
of  Funk  and  McFarlane,  the  conversation  became 
general,  and  grew  in  interest  until  McFarlane 
voiced  the  burden  that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  all 
their  hearts  by  saying: 

"Judge,  how  'bout  the  funds?  You  know  what 
we  was  sayin'  the  other  day." 

"Yes,"  said  Bromley,  "I  recall  our  conversation. 
I  shall  meet  all  legitimate  expenses — ah — as  they 
arrive." 

There  was  an  instant  depreciation  of  interest, 
and  when  the  men  filed  down  the  stairs  half  an 
hour  later,  McFarlane  again  voiced  the  burden 
of  their  hearts  by  saying: 

"He's  goin'  to  hold  onto  his  pile,  boys.  All  bills 
to  be  paid  on  vouchers  signed  by  the  auditor  and 
presented  to  the  treasurer." 

McFarlane  liked  to  recall  to  his  friends  his  six 
months  in  the  State  House^  and  spoke  at  times 


On  the  Stump  113 

in  the  language  of  the  bills  he  had  enrolled  and 
engrossed  so  often  during  that  experience. 

"Well,  a  lawyer  that  tries  his  own  case  has  a 
fool  for  a  client,"  said  Mason,  "and  it's  thataway 
'ith  a  candidate  that  manages  his  own  campaign." 

Bromley  had  been  led  to  his  resolution  to  take 
the  stump  by  two  incidents.  One,  the  first,  oc- 
curred at  Chicago.  He  had  gone  there  to  at- 
tend a  banquet  of  the  State  Bar  Association,  and 
had  made  a  speech.  Though  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  the  court  room  all  his  life,  and  had 
spoken  much  to  juries,  and  oftener  to  courts,  he 
was  deliberative  and  judicial,  rather  than  epideic- 
tic,  and  had  acquired  the  dry,  sophistical  manner 
of  speaking  which  comes  to  those  happy  and  dis- 
tinguished lawyers  whose  causes  are  heard  with 
more  sympathy  by  the  solemn  judges  of  the  courts 
of  appeal,  than  by  the  juries  in  the  nisi  prius  courts, 
and  he  had  shrunk  from  popular  oratory. 

But  at  the  bar  banquet,  having  drunk  wine,  he 
spoke  at  length,  and  as  he  progressed  so  loved  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice,  that  when  he  sat  down  he 
found  himself  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  in  an 
oratorical  perspiration.  And  then,  before  the  flush 
of  his  intellectual  activity  had  left  him,  ideas  more 
brilliant  than  those  he  had  had  while  on  his  feet 
came  to  him  in  such  profusion  that  he  had  longed 
to  repeat  his  effort.  He  felt  that  he  could  do  so 
much  better,  though  he  felt  that  he  had  done  well, 
for  the  long  board,  sweeping  away  with  its  glisten- 
ing glass,  and  surrounded  by  so  many  ruddy  men 
in  brave  shirt-fronts,  had  run  round  with  applause. 


114  The  1 3  th  District 

To  crown  his  triumph  the  man  next  to  him  had 
said: 

"Judge,  why  don't  you  take  the  stump?" 

The  words  had  coursed  gladly  through  his  veins 
like  the  wine  he  had  drunk.  He  felt  that  he  had 
found  himself  at  last. 

The  sense  of  triumph  had  not  altogether  left  him 
by  the  next  morning,  and  as  he  sat  at  his  late 
breakfast  at  his  hotel,  seeking  an  account  of  the 
banquet  in  the  Courier ^  his  name  had  suddenly 
leaped  to  his  eyes  out  of  all  the  thousands  of  words 
packed  on  the  page,  and  he  read  with  a  gasp  a 
despatch  from  Springfield,  which  reviewed  political 
conditions  in  the  state. 

The  paragraph  devoted  to  the  Thirteenth  Con- 
gressional District  said,  among  other  things: 

"Judge  Bromley  thus  far  has  not  taken  the 
stump,  and  the  impression  is  general  that  he  is 
conscious  of  his  own  limitations  as  an  orator.  In 
the  Supreme  Court,  arguing  a  case  for  some  of 
his  wealthy  clients,  he  is  perfectly  at  home,  but  he 
is  not  the  kind  of  man  that  takes  on  the  stump 
before  a  promiscuous  crowd.  Realizing  this,  the 
astute  managers  of  his  campaign  have  kept  the 
judge  at  home  and  are  making  a  still  hunt.  Mean- 
while, young  Jerry  Garwood,  who  has  oratorical 
powers  of  a  high  order,  and  who  has  unsuccess- 
fully tried  to  draw  Bromley  into  a  joint  debate, 
is  speaking  nightly  to  big  audiences  all  over  the 
District." 

The  judge  grew  angry  as  he  read  this,  and  he 
made  his  resolve  in  that  hour.   A  few  days  later, 


On  the  Stump  115 

when  the  excitement  of  his  success  at  the  bar  ban- 
quet had  left  him,  and  he  imagined  himself  speak- 
ing to  jostling  thousands  before  him,  under  the 
flare  and  swirl  of  torches'  yellow  flames,  he  would 
turn  cold  with  fear.  But  he  was  a  determined  man, 
and  he  could  not  resist  the  pleasing  sound  of  the 
words  that  announced  his  intention  to  take  the 
stump.  Proclamation  was  duly  made,  after  what 
he  politely  called  his  conference  with  the  commit- 
tee, that  he  would  open  his  speaking  tour  in  Grand 
Prairie,  with  some  more  phrases,  equally  pleasing 
to  him,  about  "throwing  down  the  gauntlet,"  and 
"carrying  the  war  into  the  enemy's  country." 

Over  in  Grand  Prairie,  Jim  Rankin  read  the  an- 
nouncement with  glee;  out  on  Sangamon  Avenue, 
Emily  Harkness  read  it,  and  clenched  her  little  fists, 
saying  to  herself  that  it  was  an  impertinence  in 
Bromley  to  come  into  Jerome's  own  town;  in  a 
little  hotel  over  in  Monticello,  Garwood  read  it 
with  concern,  wondering  what  it  could  mean,  while 
away  over  in  the  Galesburg  District,  on  a  train 
that  was  rolling  out  of  Monmouth,  Charley  Cow- 
ley, the  Courier's  political  correspondent,  who  had 
written  the  paragraph  in  his  Springfield  despatch 
at  Rankin's  request,  showed  his  teeth  in  that  odd 
smile  of  his.  And  up  in  Chicago,  in  the  breakfast 
room  of  the  Grand  Hotel,  the  chairman  of  the  state 
committee  of  the  party  Judge  Bromley  represented, 
read  it  and  swore  to  himself: 

"The  damn  fool!" 


XIV 


IN  the  calm  October  days  that  followed,  myste- 
rious and  subtle  forces  were  at  work  all  over 
the  Thirteenth  District.  The  green  trees  of  the 
windbreaks  changed  to  red  and  gold,  the  brown 
fields  were  tented  with  tepees  of  yellow  corn;  in  and 
out  among  the  stubble,  and  along  the  sides  of  the 
black  roads,  still  dry  and  velvety  from  the  sum- 
mer's warmth,  brown  prairie-chickens  rustled  cov- 
ertly, and  over  all,  over  the  fields,  the  woods,  the 
roads  and  the  scattered  towns,  the  blue  sky  bent 
with  a  haze  that  had  melancholy  reminiscences  of 
the  lost  spring,  and  the  benediction  of  peaceful 
autumn. 

Emily,  sitting  in  the  sunlight  that  streamed 
through  the  tall  bay  windows  of  her  room,  stitched 
away  on  her  white  wedding  garments,  dreaming 
in  her  smiles  of  the  new  life  that  was  just  opening 
to  her,  picturing  Garwood,  a  great,  strong  man, 
fighting  the  battles  of  his  country,  just  as  his  old 
mother,  sitting  with  her  knitting  by  her  low  win- 
dow, wrinkling  her  brow  as  she  lifted  her  eyes 
now  and  then  over  her  spectacles  to  gaze  on  her 
withering  flower-beds  in  the  little  yard,  pictured 
him  as  a  little  boy,  playing  on  the  floor,  charming 
her  with  his  precocious  speeches. 

Amid  all  this  beauty  and  mystery,  men  were 
fighting  one  another,  bribing,  deceiving  and  coer- 
ii6 


On  the  Stump  117 

cing  one  another,  in  order  that  the  offices  of  the 
republic  might  be  taken  from  one  set  of  men  and 
turned  over  to  another  set  of  men.  This  condition 
prevailed  over  all  the  land.  Everywhere  men  left 
work  to  talk  and  shout  of  this  great  battle,  all 
of  them  pretending,  of  course,  that  they  did  this 
for  the  good  of  those  whom  they  were  vilifying 
and  hating  and  accusing;  claiming  that  the  coun- 
try would  be  lost  unless  their  own  side  won.  For 
instance.  Judge  Bromley  had  laid  aside  his  dignity 
and  was  traveling  all  over  the  counties  that  made 
up  the  Thirteenth  Congressional  District  of  Illinois, 
urging  people  to  vote  for  him  because  Garwood, 
as  he  charged,  while  a  member  of  the  Legislature, 
had  accepted  a  bribe.  The  judge  did  not  know 
whether  this  was  true  or  not,  but  he  used  all  the 
powers  he  had  cultivated  in  his  four  years  in  col- 
lege, his  three  years  in  the  law  school,  his  lifetime 
at  the  bar  and  on  the  bench,  to  make  people  believe 
it  was  so;  and  he  gave,  though  not  so  freely,  of 
the  money  he  had  made  by  these  same  talents  of 
persuasion  and  dissimulation,  to  organize  clubs 
that  would  bind  men  to  believe  it. 

At  the  same  time  Garwood  was  going  up  and 
down,  urging  people  to  vote  for  him  because  his 
opponent  was  the  paid  attorney  of  the  same  cor- 
poration which  Bromley  said  had  given  the  bribe; 
and  using  all  his  talents  to  make  people  believe 
him  instead  of  Bromley.  Much  of  this  was  said 
under  the  guise  of  discussing  the  tariff  question;  as 
to  whether  the  people  could  be  made  the  happier  by 
taxing  one  another  much  or  little ;  though  neither 


Ii8  The  13  th   District 

side  could  have  had  the  happiness  of  the  people  at 
heart,  for,  in  all  the  national  turmoil,  both  sides 
were  doing  all  they  could  to  defeat  and  humiliate 
those  who  differed  from  them  in  opinion  on  little 
details  of  government. 

Meanwhile  a  change  as  subtle  and  as  mysterious 
as  that  of  autumn  was  going  on  in  the  feelings  of 
men  over  the  outcome  of  this  great  conflict.  In 
the  Thirteenth  District,  from  beHeving  that  Gar- 
wood would  be  elected,  they  began  to  believe  that 
he  would  be  defeated.  No  one  could  explain  or 
analyze  this  change  of  sentiment,  but  his  opponents 
were  gladdened  by  it,  and  his  adherents  saddened 
by  it;  many  of  them  wavered  in  their  belief  in 
him  and  in  their  adherence  to  him,  being  drawn  by 
a  desire  to  be  on  the  winning  side. 

Rankin  was  one  of  the  first  to  perceive  this 
change.  His  political  sensibilities  were  acute  from 
long  training,  he  could  estimate  public  sentiment 
accurately,  and  early  in  the  campaign  he  had 
warned  Garwood  that  before  election  the  day 
would  come  when  they  would  feel  that  they  were 
losing  ground;  he  had  hoped  that  it  would  come 
early  in  the  campaign,  but  now  that  it  had  come, 
with  but  three  weeks  in  which  to  overcome  its 
effects,  Rankin  carefully  kept  the  fact  from  Gar- 
wood. The  letters  that  he  wrote  him,  the  tele- 
grams he  sent  him,  the  advice  he  gave  when  Gar- 
wood came  home  for  Sunday,  tired  and  worn  from 
his  nerve-exhausting  labors,  were  all  to  give  him 
better  heart  to  continue  the  struggle.  Garwood 
himself,  speaking  nightly  to  crowds  that  cheered 


On  the  Stump  iig 

him,  living  and  moving  in  an  atmosphere  of  con- 
stant adulation  and  applause,  fortunately  could  not 
recognize  the  condition  that  alarmed  Rankin.  It 
seemed  to  him^  just  as  it  seems  to  every  candidate, 
that  all  the  people  were  for  him,  because  he  never 
met  any  who  were  against  him. 

Bromley  had  opened  his  campaign  in  Grand  Prai- 
rie with  a  meeting  which,  by  its  size,  alarmed  Ran- 
kin more  than  he  would  admit.  He  had  his  fun  out 
of  it,  of  course,  saying  that  Bromley,  like  all  the 
rich,  would  do  better  to  let  his  money  talk  for 
him,  and  assuring  Bromley's  party  workers  that 
the  opening  of  his  fountains  of  eloquence  meant 
the  closing  of  his  barrel.  He  made  the  discovery, 
too,  that  the  judge,  while  on  his  campaign  tour, 
slept  in  silken  pajamas,  and  he  made  much  of  this 
in  appeals  to  the  prejudices  of  the  farmers,  know- 
ing how  this  symbol  of  the  luxury  of  Bromley's 
life  would  afifect  them.  Rankin  dubbed  him 
"Pajamas"  Bromley,  and  the  stigma  stuck,  and 
yet  he  was  too  wise  to  believe  that  he  could  over- 
come the  effect  of  Bromley's  money  by  mere  words 
and  names.  This  was  why  he  made  the  trip  over 
to  Sullivan  to  see  Sprague. 

He  found  Sprague  sitting  in  his  law  office,  read- 
ing a  newspaper  in  the  idleness  of  a  country  lawyer, 
a  cuspidor  placed  conveniently  near.  Sprague  was 
a  large  man,  with  a  tousled  mass  of  gray  hair,  and 
a  short,  shaggy  beard  burnished  by  the  red  of  its 
youth,  though  it  was  now  lightened  by  gray.  He 
wore,  after  the  older  professional  ideal,  a  long, 
black  frock  coat,  though  that  he  did  not  go  thor- 


120  The  13th   District 

oughly  into  the  details  of  sartorial  effects  was 
shown  by  the  muddy  tan  shoes  that  cocked  their 
worn  heels  on  the  edge  of  his  desk. 

Conrad  Sprague  had  once  been  considered  a 
clever  man;  when  admitted  to  the  bar  he  was  one 
of  those  youths  of  whom  it  is  said,  "He  has  a 
bright  future";  and,  like  many  such,  Sprague  had 
mistaken  the  promise  for  the  fulfilment,  and  had 
been  content  to  use  the  superficial  acquirements 
which  had  given  him  a  place  in  the  debating  soci- 
ety of  the  Ohio  college  he  had  attended,  before 
going  out  to  IlHnois  to  "locate/'  .as  the  phrase  was, 
without  strengthening  them  by  newer  studies. 
While  waiting  for  a  law  practice,  he  had  gone  into 
politics,  originally  for  the  purpose  of  securing  an 
acquaintance  that  would  help  him  in  his  profes- 
sion, and  ultimately,  when  his  political  duties  inter- 
fered so  constantly  with  his  legal  duties  that  he 
could  not  attend  to  such  practice  as  came  to  him, 
as  a  means  of  livelihood  in  itself.  Thus  his  law 
office  became  in  time  but  a  background  for  his 
career  in  politics.  He  had  been  successful  at  first; 
he  had  gone  to  the  Legislature  and  once  to  Con- 
gress. Now,  in  his  defeat,  with  only  the  remnant 
of  his  loosely  organized  following  left  to  him,  he 
was  undergoing  the  spiritual  fermentation  which 
disappointment  works  in  weak  natures,  and  gave 
promise  of  souring  altogether. 

Sprague  did  not  rise  when  Rankin  entered,  nor 
even  remove  his  feet  from  his  desk.  But  he  did 
lay  his  paper  in  his  long  lap,  then  slowly  taking  the 
black-rimmed  eye-glasses  from  his  nose,  and  dan- 


On  the  Stump  121 

gling  them  at  the  end  of  their  tangled  and  knotted 
cord,  he  said: 

''Howdy,  Jim;   where'd  you  come  from?" 

"Just  landed  in,"  replied  Rankin,  pulling  up  a 
cane-seated  chair  and  dropping  his  heavy  body 
into  it. 

"Come  on  business?" 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  Rankin,  rocking  back  and 
forth,  "damned  important  business." 

"That   so?" 

"Yes,  that's  so." 

Sprague,  moved  by  the  snapping  tone,  twisted 
his  body  and  looked  squarely  at  Rankin.  He  made 
a  movement  of  his  legs  as  if  he  would  take  his  feet 
down, 

"Yes,  that's  it,"  Rankin  went  on,  "and  you're 
the  man  I  come  to  see." 

Sprague  dropped  his  feet  to  the  floor,  swung  his 
chair  half  around  on  one  of  its  legs,  and  as  it  came 
down  he  brought  it  into  a  position  directly  facing 
Rankin.  He  looked  at  his  caller  almost  angrily 
for  an  instant,  but  adopting  the  more  peaceful  tone 
in  which  he  would  have  addressed  a  new  client,  he 
said : 

"Well,  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Rankin,  "since  that's  what  I 
come  fer.  You  can  get  out  and  do  something  to 
help  land  Garwood." 

Sprague  puckered  his  lips,  turned  his  head  away 
and  whistled  reflectively.  The  whistle  was  a  series 
of  low,  tuneless  notes,  and  was  irritating  to  Ran- 


122  The  1 3  th   District 

kin,  who,  though  a  fat  man^  developed  nerves  at 
times. 

"Well,  Jim,"  said  Sprague  at  last,  "you  know 
that  I  haven't  been  taking  any  active  interest  in 
this  campaign." 

"No,  that's  just  the  trouble,"  said  Rankin,  "you 
haven't.  But  some  o'  your  fellers  has,  an'  I  want 
you  to  call  'em  off." 

Sprague  stopped  whistling  and  looked  at  Ran- 
kin. 

"Of  course,  Jim,"  he  said,  "what  some  of  my 
friends  may  be  doing  I  don't  know.  They  seem  to 
think,  some  of  them,  that  they  have  cause  for  dis- 
satisfaction in  the  way  I  was  treated  at  the  Clinton 
convention." 

"Oh,  come  off,  now,"  said  Rankin.  "You  know 
that  won't  go  'ith  me.  Con.  You  know  how  much 
chance  you  ever  had  at  the  Clinton  convention, 
and  you  know  jus'  what  I  told  you  there  in  the 
Gleason  House  that  night  before  we  met.  So 
don't  try  to  come  any  o'  that  old  gag  on  me,  'cause 
I  won't  stand  fer  it." 

"Well — "Sprague  began, in  a  voice  that  indicated 
a  want  of  conviction  on  his  part,  lifting  his  brows  to 
add  to  the  effect  of  the  tone.  He  ended  by  spitting 
at  his  convenient  cuspidor. 

"But  I  don't  care  'bout  me,"  said  Rankin;  "go 
in  an'  abuse  me  all  you  want.  Ther'  ain't  nobody 
'11  believe  you,  anyhow.  Everybody  knows 't  I 
never  broke  a  promise  in  my  life,  an'  that  I  al'ays 
stood  pat  fer  my  friends — which  you  wasn't  one 


On  the  Stump  123 

o'  them,  so  long's  I  can  remember — but  that  don't 
cut  any  figur'  here  ner  there." 

"I  always  supposed  we  were  friends,  Jim," 
Sprague  complained. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right — in  politics,  I  mean.  I 
hain't  nothin'  ag'in  you  pers'nally,  course,  but  in 
politics  we've  al'ays  been  ag'in  each  other,  an'  ther' 
ain't  no  use  tryin'  to  ignore  that  now.  You've 
been  sore  ever  since  the  convention,  of  course,  an' 
I  don't  know's  I  blame  you  fer  it,  but  we  beat  you 
fair  an'  square,  an'  I  come  over  here  to  tell  you 
that  we  expect  you  to  get  out  an'  support  the 
ticket." 

"Oh,  you  did,  did  you?"  said  Sprague,  with  half 
a  smile. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  Rankin. 

"Well,"  said  Sprague,  deliberately  stopping  to 
spit  again,  "I  supposed  that  after  the  Clinton  con- 
vention I  might  consider  myself  out  of  politics." 

"Yes,  you  might,"  Rankin  rejoined,  "but  the 
trouble  is,  you  don't,  an'  your  fellers  right  here 
in  Moultrie  County  is  out  with  the'r  knives  fer 
Jerry." 

"Well,  if  they  are,"  said  Sprague,  "I'm  sure  I 
didn't  know  it." 

"Oh,  hell,  now.  Con,"  expostulated  Rankin,  dis- 
gustedly, "don't  fer  God's  sake  use  that  'ith  me. 
Maybe  it  goes  down  to  Washin'ton,  I  don'  know, 
but  it  don't  go  here,  not  'ith  me,  't  any  rate.  You 
know  what  they're  doin',  an'  so  do  I.  An'  I'll 
just  tell  you  this,"  Rankin  leaned  over  and  laid  his 
hand  on  the  edge  of  Sprague's  desk,  while  Sprague 


124  The  13  th   District 

eyed  him  with  disfavor,  "that  if  you  expect  to  be 
in  politics  any  more  they've  got  to  stop  it,  an'  stop 
it  now,  an'  if  they  don't " 

"Well,  if  they  don't?"  Sprague  interrupted  in  an 
ugly,  defiant  note. 

"If  they  don't,  why,  don't  ever  dare  stick  your 
head  up  out  o'  your  crab-hole  ag'in;  an'  what's 
more " 

"What's  more?"  repeated  Sprague,  nodding. 

"This  is  a  game  two  can  play  at.  We've  got  a 
few  knives  over  in  Polk  County,  and,  while  they're 
a  little  rusty  an'  out  o'  use,  they're  long,  an'  they're 
deadly,  an'  we'll  get  'em  out  at  once  an'  run  'em 
into  that  brother-'n-law  o'  yourn  about  that 
fur " 

Rankin  measured  ofif  the  sickening  distance  on 
his  left  arm,  with  his  right  hand  at  the  elbow. 

"An'  turn  'em  round,"  and  Rankin  twisted  his 
fist  savagely.  In  illustrating  the  vengeful  deed  he 
had  allowed  some  of  his  excitement  to  master 
him,  and  he  rose  now  and  stood  hanging  over 
Sprague  with  a  menace  in  the  droop  of  his  shoul- 
ders and  the  stretch  of  his  neck. 

"Now  you  know  the  business  that  brought  me 
here.  Con  Sprague,"  Rankin  went  on.  "I  come 
over  to  tell  this  to  Wilson,  but  I  thought  it  'uld  be 
fair  to  tell  you  first.  I'm  goin'  over  to  tell  him,  an' 
then  I'm  goin'  back  home.  Now,  if  your  brother- 
'n-law  wants  to  go  to  the  Legislature,  just  you  get 
out  an'  make  a  few  speeches  fer  Garwood,  an'  de- 
clare y'urself,  an'  you  an'  him  put  y'ur  fellers  over 
here  to  work,  an'  you  do  it  in  two  days.    I'll  watch 


On  the  Stump  125 

you  an'  if  you  don't  do  it,  I'll  say  'plunk,' " — Ran- 
kin used  the  word  which  the  Illinois  politicians, 
doubtless  in  their  distrust  of  anything  British,  have 
substituted  for  the  Englishman's  "plump" — "an' 
the  boys'll  plunk — an'  fer  the  first  time  in  our  his- 
tory we'll  send  a  minority  representative  to  Spring- 
fieldj  an'  it  won't  be  your  brother-'n-law,  either." 

Sprague's  face  blackened.  He  knew  that  dan- 
gerous possibility  in  cumulative  voting,  but  he 
said  nothing. 

"I  don't  ask  you  fer  any  answer,"  said  Rankin. 
"But  I've  served  notice  on  you.  You  can  do  just 
as  you  damn  please." 

And  then  Rankin  went  away.  He  made  his  call 
on  Wilson.  By  night  he  was  back  in  Grand  Prai- 
rie. 


XV 


IN  the  early  twilight  of  a  Saturday  afternoon  late 
in  October  Garwood  walked  up  Kaskaskia 
Street  from  the  station  in  a  cold,  sullen  rain, 
conscious  of  but  one  sensation — he  was  glad  that 
only  one  more  week  of  the  campaign  remained. 
He  walked  with  long,  deliberate  strides,  indififerent 
to  the  rain,  which  had  beaten  down  his  wide  hat 
brim  and  trickled  ofif  it,  before  and  behind,  in  little 
streams.  His  face,  under  those  drooping  eaves, 
was  long  and  serious;  it  brightened,  automatically, 
only  when  he  met  some  pedestrian  to  whom  in  his 
capacity  as  a  candidate,  he  involuntarily  spoke  a 
greeting. 

Garwood  had  come  home  in  response  to  a  tele- 
gram from  Rankin,  a  telegram  which  had  concen- 
trated such  an  urgency  into  its  economically  chosen 
ten  words  that  he  had  traveled  many  miles  since 
daylight  over  country  roads  and  by  rail  to  reach 
Grand  Prairie  at  night.  Now,  just  as  the  twilight 
was  darkening  and  the  lights  were  beginning  to 
show  in  the  stores  along  Main  Street,  he  turned 
into  the  Lawrence  Block  and  climbed  to  his  office. 
The  office  was  dark ;  young  Enright,  who  was  read- 
ing law  under  him,  had  gone  into  the  country 
to  make  one  of  the  political  speeches  he  was  proud 
of  having  been  asked  to  deliver  that  fall ;  the  type- 
writer had  closed  her  desk  and  gone,  and  her 
126 


On  the  Stump  127 

little  clock  was  ticking  lonesomely  beside  her 
little  vase  of  flowers.  But  in  his  private  room, 
Garwood  found  Rankin  sitting  with  his  feet  on  the 
window-sill  looking  abstractedly  down  into  the 
street  where  the  lights  from  the  store-windows 
wriggled  in  many  lines  across  the  canal  of  mud. 

Garwood  took  off  his  hat,  lashed  it  back  and 
forth  to  get  the  water  off,  and  slapped  it  down 
on  the  top  of  his  desk.  And  then  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  was  rough  and  hoarse: 

"Well,  what's  the  matter?  Everything's  gone 
to  hell,  I  suppose — heh?" 

"No,  it's  all  right.  I  just  want  a  talk  with  you," 
said  Rankin.     "Have  a  good  meetin'  last  night?" 

"Oh,  first-rate;  made  a  poor  speech,  though. 
Truth  is,  I'm  about  done  up.  Thank  God  it'll  be 
over  in  another  week,  whichever  way  it  goes.  Don't 
know  that  I  care" — his  sentence  was  broken  by  a 
cough  that  shook  him. 

Rankin  turned  and  tried  to  distinguish  his  fea- 
tures. 

"Look'e  here,  Jerry,"  said  the  big  fellow,  "you've 
got  a  cold — you'd  best  go  down  and  have  Chris  mix 
you  a  hot  tod." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  said  Garwood,  scraping  his 
throat.    "Go  on  with  your  tale  of  woe." 

"Well,"  began  Rankin  with  evident  reluctance, 
"I  hate  to  tell  you,  but  the  truth  is,  we've  got  to 
have  some  money,  an'  I  don't  know  where  it's  com- 
in'  from.  I've  spent  all  we  had,  an'  more,  too,  an' 
I've  held  up  everybody  here  in  town  till  I've 
squeezed  'em  dry.     They  don't  Hke  to  give  to  us 


128  The  13  th   District 

anyway ;  most  of  'em  has  already  contributed  to  the 
county  fund,  an'  they  think  that's  enough.  I  can't 
use  all  the  county  funds  fer  you;  the  candidates  is 
kickin'  already;  they  say  I've  been  neglectin'  'em 
fer  you,  an'  it  won't  do  to  git  'em  sore  on  us — 
'taint  hardly  square  nohow.  Damned  if  I  like  it. 
We've  got  along  so  fur,  but  now  we're  up  to  the 
limit." 

"Wouldn't  the  Hutchinsons  give?" 

"Well,  they  put  all  theirn  in  the  county  fund,  so's 
to  elect  Sanford ;  they  say  anyhow  a  congressman 
can't  help  'em ;  they're  lookin'  fer  the  treas'rer  only 
— all  they  care  fer  is  the  bank." 

"That's  the  way  with  those  bankers,"  said  Gar- 
wood. "Hogs,  all  of  them.  That's  what  we  get 
for  giving  them  Sanford.  If  we'd  nominated  a 
fellow  of  our  own  for  treasurer  we  might  have 
forced  him  to  lay  down  on  them." 

"Yes,  you're  right,  but  that  time's  gone  by  now, 
no  use  cryin'  over  spilt  milk.  We've  got  to  face 
the  present.  We  owe  a  good  many  bills,  some  fer 
printin',  an' — " 

"Can't  they  wait  till  after  election?" 

"Oh,  maybe  they  might,  but  I  hate  to  ask  'em ;  it 
wouldn't  help  us  any.  The  postage — well,  I've 
paid  all  that  out  o'  my  own  pocket." 

"You  know  how  I  appreciate  that,  Jim,  don't 
you?" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Rankin,  waving  his 
gratitude  aside.  "Then  there's  the  Citi::en  an'  some 
other  papers  over  the  district,  they're  beginning  to 
clamor  fer  the'r  money." 


On  the  Stump  129 

"It's  a  regular  hold-up,  isn't  it?"  said  Garwood. 

"That's  what  you've  got  to  expect  in  politics," 
said  Rankin.  "But  if  that  'as  all  we  might  take 
care  of  it.  The  situation  has  taken  a  curious  turn 
this  last  week." 

"How's  that?"  asked  Garwood,  who  had  suffered 
from  a  candidate's  myopia,  and  could  not  note  the 
numerous  turns  a  situation  takes  during  a  cam- 
paign. 

"Well,  It's  this  way.  The  committees  is  all  kick- 
in'  because  your  assessments  hasn't  been  paid.  I've 
been  tryin'  to  make  a  poor  man's  campaign  fer  you, 
an'  I've  succeeded  pretty  well  so  fur,  if  I  do  say  it 
myself.  But  the  boys  needs  money  everywhere; 
they  want  to  finish  up  the'r  poll,  and  over  in  Moul- 
trie, where  we  had  to  deal  with  the  Sprague  kick- 
ers, a  little  money  has  just  got  to  be  used,  that's 
all." 

"I  thought  you'd  fixed  Sprague?" 

"Well,  I  made  him  come  down,  o'  course,  but  I 
wouldn't  trust  the  dirty  whelp  out  o'  my  sight  on'y 
when  I  could  see  him,  as  the  old  widow  woman 
said  of  her  grandson,  an'  I  think  we  ought  to  pay 
the  assessment  over  there  anyway." 

"How  much  is  it  ?"  asked  Garwood,  with  the  pain 
an  unrendered  bill  can  give  one. 

"Two  hundred,"  said  Rankin.  "The  boys  over 
there  say — shall  I  tell  you  what  they  say?" 

"Yes;  go  on,  I  can  stand  anything  nowadays." 

"Well,  they  say  that  now  you're  goin'  to  marry 
ol'  man  Harkness's  daughter,  you'd  ought  to  get 
him  to  put  up  fer  you." 


130  The  13  th   District 

Garwood,  in  his  hoarse  voice,  swore  an  oath. 

"Well,  I'm  just  tellin'  you  what  they  say.  They're 
sayin'  that  right  here  to  home,  an'  they're  sayin'  it 
pretty  much  all  over  the  district.  They  think  Hark- 
ness  is  made  o'  money,  an'  that  it  'uld  be  easy  fer 
him  to  put  up  some." 

"Have  they  ever  known  him  to  put  up  any  for 
a  campaign  ?"  asked  Garwood  with  a  sardonic  smile 
that  Rankin  could  not  see  in  the  gloom. 

"No,  reckon  not;  but  they  look  to  you  to  loosen 
him  up.  But  let  me  tell  you,"  Rankin  hastened  on, 
as  if  he  had  pleasanter  information,  "you  know 
Bromley,  when  he  got  good  an'  goin',  let  loose  a 
lot  of  his  money — just  sowed  it  'round  freely  fer 
two  or  three  weeks,  an'  it  kind  o'  made  up  fer  the 
mistakes  he  was  makin'  on  the  stump.  But 
now  he's  done  just  what  I  knowed  he'd  do — here 
with  election  a  week  ofif,  he's  got  skeered  an'  froze 
up  stiff  an'  cold,  tighter'n  a  mill  race  in  January — 
not  a  red  cent  'ill  he  bleed  now,  an'  the  whole  push 
is  sore  on  'im.  But  I  knowed  he'd  do  it,  I  knowed 
it,  from  the  very  first."  Rankin  chuckled  at  his 
own  prophetic  instinct.  "So  you  see,  we'd  ought 
to  take  advantage  of  the  situation.  If  I  had  a  little 
money  to  use  judiciously,  I'd  have  'em  licked  to  a 
stand-still  a  week  from  to-night." 

Rankin  rubbed  his  palms  in  the  enthusiasm  he 
would  have  felt  in  such  a  triumphant  finish  to  his 
campaign,  while  Garwood's  heart  beat  a  little  high- 
er as  he  thought  of  the  security  he  would  feel  in 
the  possession  of  a  campaign  fund.  The  little  wave 
of  excitement  brought  on  a  return  of  his  cough. 


On  the   Stump  131 

"An'  now,  Jerry,"  Rankin  resumed,  "I'll  tell  you 
why  I  sent  fer  you."  He  drew  his  chair  closer  to 
Garwood,  and  laid  his  hand  on  Garwood's  knee. 
"My  God,  man!"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly.  "You 
been  sittin'  here  in  clothes  as  wet  as  that?" 

"Oh,  go  on,"  said  Garwood.  "Let's  hear  what 
you  have  to  say.    Don't  mind  me,  I'm  all  right." 

"Well,  I'll  make  it  short/'  said  Rankin.  "An' 
then  we'll  go  down  to  Chris's.  What  I  want  to 
suggest  is  this — I  hate  to  do  it,  but  it's  a  groun'- 
hog  case,  an'  you  an'  me's  ol'  friends" — 

"Go  on,"  urged  Garwood. 

"Well,"  Rankin  continued,  with  a  reluctance,  "I 
don't  like  to — but  here  goes.  We've  got  to  have 
money — an'  I  thought — well,  that  you  might  jus' 
go  to  old  man  Harkness  an'  make  a  little  touch — • 
fer  a  thousand,  say — " 

Garwood  had  already  begun  shaking  his  head 
vigorously. 

"No,  Jim,  no,"  he  said;  "not  for  all  the  world. 
It's  impossible ;  I  can't  think  of  it.  You  can  under- 
stand my  position — I  just  can't  do  it,  that's  all. 
We've  got  to  find  some  other  way." 

"Well,"  said  Rankin,  flinging  up  his  hands  as  if 
he  were  flinging  up  the  problem,  "all  right ;  you 
find  the  other  way.  I've  been  here  rackin'  what  few 
brains  I've  got  fer  a  week,  an'  I  can't  think  of  any 
other  way.  God  knows  I've  spent  all  I've  got  as  it 
is."  He  settled  back  in  his  chair  and  plunged  his 
hands  deep  in  his  empty  pockets. 

"Yes,  I  know,  Jim,  and  I  appreciate  it — ^but — I'll 
tell  you." 


132  The  13th   District 

Garwood  sat  and  thought  intently  an  instant, 
knitting  his  strong  brows. 

"No,  I  won't  tell  you  either,  but  I  think  I  can 
raise  it — I'll  see  you  to-morrow  morning.  I  think  I 
know  of  a  place." 

"All  right,  Jerry,"  said  Rankin,  getting  up;  "I 
don't  care  where  you  get  it — jus'  so's  you  get  it. 
I  only  want  to  see  you  landed  high  an'  dry  out  of 
the  wet,  my  boy,  that's  all."  And  he  hit  Garwood 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Here,  let  me  hold  it  fer  you,"  he  said  a  minute 
later,  when  Garwood  had  picked  up  his  overcoat, 
heavy  with  its  soaking  in  the  rain. 

Down  in  Chris  Steisfloss's  saloon  as  they  stood 
at  the  bar,  and  just  as  Garwood  was  ordering  a 
drink,  Rankin  pushed  him  aside  and  said: 

"No,  you  wait.  Now  Chris,"  he  went  on,  ad- 
dressing the  stolid  man  in  the  white  apron,  "you 
take  a  whisky  glass  an'  fill  it  with  beer,  mostly  foam 
— same  as  all  your  beers — an'  then  put  a  spoonful 
o'  that  quinine  on  the  foam." 

The  man  did  as  Rankin  bade  him,  and  when  the 
white  powder  was  floating  on  the  sparkling  foam, 
Rankin  gave  it  to  Garwood  and  said: 

"Now  you  swallow  that,  quick;  you  can't  taste 
it.    Then  you  can  have  your  whisky." 


XVI 


WHEN  Garwood  turned  into  the  gate  of  his 
home  that  night  a  weird  feeUng  of  detach- 
ment came  over  him.  As  he  looked 
around  the  famihar  yard  every  black  bush,  every 
tree  tossing  its  thinned  boughs  hopelessly  in  the 
wind  that  blew  the  rain  in  sheets  against  the  front 
of  the  house,  seemed  to  belong  to  some  past  toward 
which  he  yearned,  as  an  exiled  identity.  Half  way 
to  the  low  stoop,  the  light  in  the  sitting  room 
moved,  the  shadow  of  the  drenched  syringa  bush 
under  the  window  wheeled  across  the  yard,  and 
then  the  light  disappeared,  leaving  the  window 
black.  He  knew  his  mother  had  heard  his  step, 
for  in  another  moment  the  hall  transom  leaped 
bright,  the  door  opened,  a  great  golden  beam 
streamed  out  on  the  walk  and  he  saw  his  mother's 
gaunt  figure  standing  in  the  doorway.  She  held  the 
lamp  over  her  head  and  bent  forward,  shading  her 
old  eyes  to  peer  out  into  the  darkness,  and  in  an- 
other instant  he  was  beside  her,  and  she  was  slam- 
ming the  door  behind  him,  shutting  out  the  rain  and 
the  night. 

"My,  you're  drenched  to  the  skin,  Jerome!"  she 
exclaimed.  "Run  right  up  and  change  your 
clothes!" 

"Whew!"  he  said,  "what  a  night!"  He  whisked 
out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  face,  wet  with 
133 


134  The   13  th   District 

the  rain  and  moist  with  perspiration,  for  the  whis- 
ky and  the  rapid  walk  had  heated  him.  , 

"And  how  hoarse  you  are !"  the  mother  said, 
wheeling  his  big  body  about  and  pushing  him  to- 
ward the  stairs.  "You've  got  your  death  of  cold ! 
Haven't  you  been  doing  anything  for  it?" 

"I  took  a  little  quinine  and  whisky  a  while  ago." 

"Yes,  I  smelt  it  on  your  breath,  Jerome,"  his 
mother  said  rather  severely.  She  was  "temper- 
ance," as  she  would  have  put  it. 

Garwood  risked  an  uneasy  laugh.  He  had  never 
been  able,  grown  man  that  he  was,  to  overcome 
what  he  considered  a  boyish  fear  of  his  mother's 
knowing  he  drank. 

"But  don't  stand  there!"  the  mother  said.  "Go 
right  upstairs  and  take  those  wet  duds  off  this 
minute!    Have  you  had  any  supper?" 

"No;  is  supper  over?"  he  replied. 

"Yes,  I  just  got  the  table  cleared  and  the  dishes 
washed.  But  I'll  get  you  something,  by  the  time 
you're  into  dry  clothes." 

"Oh,  don't  bother  to  get  anything,  mother,"  he 
said. 

She  gave  the  lamp  to  her  son,  and  as  he  went  up 
the  stairs  he  heard  her  raking  up  the  coals  in  the 
kitchen  stove. 

"Mother !"  he  called,  peremptorily.  "Don't  make 
any  fire;  just  something  cold — that'll  do  for  me." 

"You  go  get  your  clothes  off  as  I  tell  you!"  his 
mother  called  in  the  tone  of  command  mothers  love 
to  use  with  children  for  whom  they  are  continually 
making  sacrifices.     When  she  had  revived  the  dy- 


On  the  Stump  135 

ing  fire,  she  hastened  upstairs  and  laid  out  clean 
under-garments  for  her  son,  and  dry  hose,  and  then, 
forever  busy,  left  him  with  an  injunction  "just  to 
dress  comfortable  and  not  fix  up." 

Garwood,  warm,  dry  and  refreshed,  felt  a  glow 
of  comfort  as  he  went  downstairs  in  his  slippers. 
His  mother  had  the  fire  crackling,  and  the  tea- 
kettle rocking  briskly  on  the  stove,  puffing  its  little 
spouts  of  steam  importantly.  Beside  it  stood  a  pan, 
with  water  almost  boiling,  and  she  had  a  skillet 
heating.  She  was  in  the  dining  room ;  Garwood 
could  hear  the  clatter  of  plates,  and  when  she  came 
bustling  with  her  tireless,  wiry  energy  out  into  the 
kitchen,  he  remained  there,  walking  up  and  down, 
gossiping  with  her  in  a  way  which,  while  she  was 
always  undemonstrative,  she  entirely  loved.  As  the 
fire  grew  hotter  and  the  kettle  began  to  sing,  the 
kitchen  became  warm  and  cozy,  and  the  man  and 
the  mother  felt  a  confidential  charm  in  their  sur- 
roundings that  they  never  found  so  much  anywhere 
as  in  the  kitchen, 

Garw^ood  told  his  mother  of  his  meetings  during 
the  week,  of  the  meals  he  had  been  compelled  to 
endure  at  the  little  country  hotels,  of  his  long  rides 
by  night.  But  he  did  not  talk  to  her  of  Emily,  and 
the  old  woman  warily  avoided  the  girl's  name  and 
all  topics  that  even  by  the  remotest  association 
might  suggest  her.  Mrs.  Garwood  was  proud  of 
Emily,  and  while  she  gloried  in  that  pride  before 
the  women  of  her  acquaintance  she  never  let  her 
son  see  it;  she  rather  distrusted  her  own  footing  in 
the  presence  of  the  girl  or  of  her  name.    More  than 


136  The  13  th   District 

all  she  longed  that  night  to  keep  her  son  at  home 
with  her,  and  she  strained  every  nerve  to  do  so. 

The  fragrance  of  the  steaming  coffee  was  filling 
the  room.  She  put  some  slices  of  bacon  in  the 
skillet  to  fry — broiling  did  not  form  any  part  of  her 
culinary  accomplishments — and  after  she  had 
dropped  two  eggs  into  the  tin  pan  where  the  water 
had  long  been  bubbling,  she  commanded  him  to 
hold  his  watch  on  them,  as  if  they  were  about  to 
run  a  race.  She  cut  the  bread  in  great  white  slices ; 
she  opened  a  glass  of  her  jelly,  a  concession  she 
seldom  made  before  winter,  and  she  even  found 
for  his  dessert  the  half  of  an  apple  pie.  When  she 
had  poured  her  coffee  off,  she  whisked  the  supper 
on  to  the  table ;  and  before  Garwood  could  stop  her 
she  had  run  bareheaded  out  of  the  kitchen  door 
and  was  grinding  up  a  pitcher  of  fresh  water  from 
the  old  chain-pump  in  the  yard.  He  called  to  her 
to  let  him  get  it,  though  he  made  no  move  to  deter 
her,  and  as  she  rinsed  out  the  pitcher  and  whirled 
the  rattling  crank  of  the  pump  again,  she  called 
out  of  the  rainy  darkness : 

"Don't  you  come  out  here!  You've  got  your 
slippers  on." 

He  scolded  her  as  she  came  stamping  back  into 
the  kitchen,  the  rain  drops  showing  on  her  gray 
hair,  but  she  stilled  his  scoldings  by  reproaches 
of  her  own  for  standing  in  the  open  door  on  such 
a  night  and  with  such  a  cold. 

The  son  repaid  his  mother's  efforts  by  declaring 
that  he  did  not  know  how  hungry  he  was  until  he 
smelled  her  cooking  again,  and  he  made  the  eyes 


On  the  Stump  137 

that  looked  fondly  across  the  table  glisten  with  a 
brightness  that  seldom  glowed  in  their  dim  depths, 
by  eating  all  the  bacon  she  had  fried,  and  both  the 
eggs,  and  then  by  sending  her  to  cut  more  bread. 
He  urged  her  to  share  his  meal,  though  he  warned 
her  that  if  she  did  she  would  have  to  cook  him 
more  bacon  and  boil  him  another  egg.  She 
refused,  though  she  implored  him  to  let  her 
fry  more  bacon  and  boil  the  other  egg,  but 
she  did  consent  finally  to  drink  a  cup  of  coffee,  in 
the  readiness  American  women  always  evince  for 
their  national  beverage.  She  said  it  did  her  good 
to  see  him  eat.  "Feed  a  cold  and  starve  a  fever," 
she  quoted.  When  he  had  eaten,  he  threatened 
to  help  her  wash  the  dishes,  as  he  used  to  do  when 
he  was  a  boy,  but  she  declined  this  assistance  also, 
saying  she  was  going  to  leave  them  for  the  hired 
girl  to  do  up  in  the  morning.  She  had  fears  of  his 
escaping  when  he  had  eaten,  but  he  pacifically 
lighted  a  cigar  and  she  allowed  him  to  stroll  out 
of  her  sight  into  the  sitting  room. 

Though  she  had  said  she  was  not  going  to  wash 
the  dishes  he  heard  her  scrape  the  skillet  and  a 
moment  later,  knock  the  coffee  pot  on  the  sink  out- 
side the  kitchen  door,  and  he  called  to  upbraid  her 
for  breaking  her  promise  to  him.  Under  his  admoni- 
tions she  hastened  through  her  work,  and  when 
she  joined  him  in  the  sitting  room  she  glanced  at 
his  feet,  as  she  entered,  to  reassure  herself  by  find- 
ing him  still  in  slippers.  He  gave  her  a  pang  of 
fear  by  observing,  in  the  moment  when  their  con- 
versation lagged,  that  he  supposed  he  ought  to  go 


138  The  13th   District 

over  and  see  Emily,  but  she  said,  appealing  to  hij 
affection  by  speaking-  of  herself  in  the  third  per- 
son: 

"Oh,  stay  with  mother  to-night;  it's  been  so  long 
since  you  were  at  home." 

She  got  out  her  sewing  basket  for  her  never 
idle  hands  and  as  Garwood  stretched  himself  in  the 
wooden  rocking-chair  his  father  had  loved,  he  said : 

"Oh,  well,  all  right;  she  doesn't  know  I'm  here 
anyhow." 

Then  she  was  content  to  sit  and  dam  his  socks 
and  look  at  him  in  the  great  silence  of  a  mother's 
love. 

They  sat  there  for  a  long  time.  She  did  not 
know  how  to  make  conversation,  and,  remember- 
ing the  dislike  for  questions  he  had  inherited  from 
his  silent  father,  she  feared  to  disturb  him  by  ask- 
ing any.     She  was  satisfied  to  have  him  with  her. 

Garwood  remained  silent  until  he  had  finished  his 
cigar,  disliking  to  interrupt  his  own  pleasure  in  it 
by  opening  the  subject  that  then  was  on  his  heart. 
But  at  length  he  began  to  talk  to  her  about  his 
campaign,  and  it  was  a  stimulant  to  her  pride  to 
hear  his  confidences.  She  was  more  pleased 
than  distressed  when  he  spoke  in  a  discouraged 
tone  of  his  prospects.  She  knew  he  was  of  a  de- 
sponding temperament,  another  heritage  from  his 
father,  and  it  pleased  her  to  try  to  cheer  him. 

"Oh,  you'll  be  'lected,"  she  insisted.  "Your 
mother's  prayin',  my  son,  and  she  has  faith  in  her 
prayers." 


On  the  Stump  139 

Garwood  laughed,  with  a  touch  of  the  harsh 
skepticism  she  was  always  combating  in  him. 

"I'm  afraid  we  need  money  just  now,  as  much 
as  prayers,"  he  said. 

"Money?"  she  asked,  pausing  in  her  darning, 
and  looking  up  at  him  inquiringly. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "There  are  legitimate  expenses 
in  a  campaign  you  know,  that  a  candidate  has  to 
meet."  And  then  he  told  her  what  the  legitimate 
expenses  were. 

"Some  of  the  boys — Jim  Rankin  and  some  others 
— suggested  that  I  ought  to  go  to  Mr.  Harkness," 
he  said,  when  he  had  finished.  He  had  adroitly 
calculated  the  effect  this  suggestion  would  have 
upon  her,  and  he  was  certain  of  her  reply. 

"Go  to  Mr.  Harkness,  would  they?  Humph!" 
Her  eyes  blazed  as  she  almost  snorted  this.  "I'd 
have  them  know  if  we  are  poor  we're  not  goin' 
to  be  beholden  to  the  Harknesses  in  any  such  way 
as  that!" 

"That's  just  what  I  told  them,"  said  the  son, 
quietly. 

"An'  you  told  'em  just  right!"  she  added.  She 
returned  to  her  darning,  holding  up  the  sock, 
stretched  over  her  extended  fingers,  before  the 
lamp. 

"But  I  don't  know  whom  to  go  to,"  Garwood 
said  presently,  "and  I've  got  to  go  to  somebody." 

"Can't  you  possibly  get  along  somehow?"  she 
asked.  "Tell  'em  you  just  ain't  got  any  money  to 
give  'em." 

Garwood  gave  a  contemptuous  "Humph!"  and 


140  The  13th   District 

then,  made  impatient  by  her  utter  failure  to  com- 
prehend the  grim  necessity  of  a  candidate's  posi- 
tion with  election  but  a  week  away,  he  said : 

"Didn't  I  just  say  I'd  got  to  have  some?" 

"Well,  mother  don't  pretend  to  know  about  pol- 
itics. Your  pa  never  had  anything  to  do  with  'em, 
you  know."  She  hastened  to  say  this  in  her  mild 
voice,  to  conciliate  his  petulance  with  her. 

"Oh,  I  know,  mother,"  he  rejoined;  "but  it's  a 
ground-hog  case  with  me.  I've  got  to  meet  my 
assessments  some  way.  It  wouldn't  be  honorable 
not  to." 

He  stretched  out  his  long  legs  and  gazed  into 
the  grate. 

"I'll  have  to  borrow  of  some  one,  I  don't  know 
who." 

He  slid  farther  down  into  his  chair  and  crowded 
his  hands  into  his  trousers'  pockets,  a  physical  pos- 
ture at  one  with  his  mental  attitude. 

"I  don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do." 

He  was  scowling,  his  face  was  long,  and  he  said 
this  with  the  deep  tone  of  a  final  and  absolute 
despair. 

"Some  one  will  lend  it  to  you,"  the  mother  said. 
"You  mustn't  get  so  down-hearted." 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  know  who !"  he  said,  casting  a 
challenge  at  her  from  his  eyes. 

"Why,  some  o'  the  banks — ^they  loan  money." 

He  laughed  aloud,  harshly,  angrily. 

"The  banks !"  he  said,  mocking  her  tone.  "The 
banks!  They'd  be  likely  to  lend  me  any  without 
security,  wouldn't  they?" 


On  the  Stump  141 

"Well,  Jerome,  don't  get  mad  with  mother,"  she 
said.    "She'd  help  you  if  she  could." 

He  was  silent;  silent  for  a  long  time.  She 
looked  up  at  him  now  and  then,  cautiously,  but  she 
understood  his  humor,  and  she  thought  by  the 
knitting  of  his  brows  that  he  was  deep  in  thought. 
Out  of  his  cogitations  he  came  after  a  time,  and 
then  to  say,  with  a  mild,  hesitating  approach  to 
their  result : 

"I  can  think  of  only  one  thing,  mother,  I  might 
do." 

"What's  that?"  she  asked. 

"I  might  borrow  a  little  from  the  bank — and  we 
give  a  mortgage  on  the  house." 

His  mother  did  not  move.  Her  gray  head  was 
bent  over  her  sewing.  The  light  of  the  lamp  made 
her  hair  glisten;  he  heard  the  sound  of  her  thread 
as  she  pulled  her  darning-needle  regularly  out  to 
arm's  length.  Presently,  as  he  ventured  to  look 
at  her,  he  thought  of  how  his  father  had  toiled 
to  put  this  little  roof  over  her  head  before  the  dis- 
ease which  he  knew  was  hastening  his  end  should 
bear  him  away ;  he  thought  of  the  comfort  she  had 
always  taken,  during  the  long  years  she  had  worked 
to  keep  him  in  school,  in  the  thought  that  whatever 
else  came,  she  had  a  home,  an  asylum  for  every 
stress  and  storm  of  life.  She  sewed  on  in  the  si- 
lence, and  he  did  not  speak  again,  but  waited  for 
her.  And  after  awhile  she  spoke,  without  raising 
her  head: 

"You  know,  dear" — he  could  not  remember 
.when  she  had  permitted  herself  the  tender  word 


142  The  13  th  District 

before — "what  I  promised  your  father  before  he 
went  away." 

Garwood  leaned  toward  her  with  his  elbows  on 
his  knees. 

"I  know,  mother,"  he  said,  "but  this  really  isn't 
serious,  not  that  serious;  it  would  be  a  small  one, 
and  I'm  sure  to  be  elected,  and  then  I'll  have  a  good 
salary  as  congressman — five  thousand  a  year — just 
think !  Why,  it  would  only  be  for  a  couple  of 
months;  I'd  get  a  sixty-day  loan.  I  could  easily 
pay  it  off  then;  you'd  never  know  the  difference." 
He  smiled  in  his  own  hopefulness.  "It  seems  a  pity 
to  lose  such  a  good  chance  as  I've  got  now  for  a 
little  thing  like  that." 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes. 

"But  your  father  said,  Jerome,"  she  faltered,  and 
then  he  saw  a  tear  fall  on  the  pile  of  hose  in  her 
lap,  and,  strangely  enough,  in  such  a  moment,  he 
saw  a  pair  of  their  servant  girl's  stockings — he 
knew  them  because  their  splendor  of  color  told 
that  they  never  belonged  to  his  mother.  "And  I," 
she  went  on,  "I — promised." 

"But,  mother,  just  look  here  a  minute — I 
wouldn't  ask  anything  out  of  the  way  of  you, 
would  I?" 

"You've  always  been  a  good  son  to  me,  Jerome, 
and  a  good  provider." 

"Well,  it  isn't  as  if  you  were  going  to  get  a  big 
sum  on  it,  or  as  if  we  had  no  chance  of  paying  it 
off  right  away.  It  won't  be  breaking  your  prom- 
ise, don't  you  see  ?" 

He  went  on  with  his  smiling,  specious  reason- 


On  the  Stump  143 

ing,  reassuring  himself  every  minute,  and  finally 
seeming  to  make  an  impression  upon  her,  for  she 
said  at  last: 

''Well,  Jerome,  you're  a  man  now,  and  you  know 
best  about  such  things.  You'll  have  to  take  care  of 
your  old  mother  before  long,  anyway,  till  she — " 

She  took  off  her  spectacles  and  wiped  away  their 
moisture  on  the  stocking  she  was  darning,  and  then 
she  raised  her  eyes,  their  pale  depths  dim  with  tears, 
and  through  them  she  smiled  at  him.  He  got  up 
and  kissed  her,  and  she  held  him  to  her,  press- 
ing his  cheek  close  to  her  withered  one,  patting  his 
hands  clumsily,  awkwardly,  for  she  had  never  had 
time  to  cultivate  the  luxurious  graces  of  affection. 

She  did  not,  however,  give  way  long  to  her  emo- 
tion. She  urged  him  to  go  to  bed,  because  of  his 
cold,  and  in  the  new  burst  of  affection  the  evening 
had  developed  in  his  heart,  he  obeyed.  She  tucked 
him  in  his  bed  as  if  he  had  been  a  little  boy  again, 
and  said  good  night. 

He  lay  there  a  long  time,  warm,  perspiring,  com- 
fortable, his  election  as  he  felt  at  last  assured.  But 
he  could  not  get  to  sleep.  For  from  his  mother's 
room  there  came  to  him  the  sound  of  her  quaver- 
ing, aged  voice,  in  hoarse  whispers,  and  he  knew 
that  she  was  kneeling  by  her  bed,  praying. 


XVII 


GARWOOD  found  Rankin  sitting  in  the  lobby 
of  the  Cassell  House,  stif?  in  the  highly 
glossed  linen  his  wife  decreed  for  his  Sun- 
day wear,  his  face  cleanly  shaved  and  showing  its 
pink  under  the  powder  the  barber  had  left  on  it. 
He  had  had  his  hair  cut,  too,  and  his  cropped  curls, 
because  they  had  been  combed  by  the  barber,  gave 
him  the  appearance  of  having  been  trimmed  and 
made  over  in  another  fashion.  He  had  got  some 
of  the  ashes  of  his  cigar  on  his  waistcoat,  as  he 
lay  deep  in  a  big  chair  with  the  Sunday  papers 
piled  in  his  lap,  and  when  he  noticed  Garwood,  he 
also  noticed  the  ashes,  and  in  his  haste  to  brush 
them  off,  he  could  only  wheeze  out  an  inadequate 
greeting  between  the  teeth  that  clenched  his  cigar. 

Garwood  did  not  feel  the  satisfaction  he  had  an- 
ticipated for  that  moment,  when  he  said: 

"Well,  Jim,  you  may  rest  easy,  I  can  take  care  of 
that  little  matter  we  were  talking  of  last  night." 

Although  Garwood  spoke  with  a  politician's  gen- 
erality, Rankin,  before  he  replied,  glanced  over  his 
shoulders  with  a  politician's  wariness  which  is  like 
the  wariness  of  a  hunted  savage. 

"Well,  that's  all  right  then,"  Rankin  answered, 
blinking  his  eyes  because  the  smoke  from  his  cigar 
had  persisted  in  creeping  into  them.    "Didn't  have 
any  trouble  about  it,  did  you?" 
144 


On  the  Stump  145 

"No,  none  to  speak  of,"  said  Garwood.  He 
laughed,  but  it  was  a  laugh  with  more  of  rue  than 
mirth  in  it.  "It  only  means  a  little  more  debt,  that's 
all." 

"Well,"  said  Rankin,  nipping  the  wet  and  ragged 
end  of  his  cigar  with  his  teeth,  "so  long  as  you 
don't  have  to  mortgage  the  roof  over  your  head 
you're  all  right." 

The  words  of  course  struck  a  pain  through  Gar- 
wood's heart,  but  he  gave  his  laugh  again  as  he 
answered : 

"Well,  I  reckon  it  won't  come  to  that." 

"There's  one  thing  I've  al'ays  done,  Jerry,"  said 
Rankin,  leaning  over  in  a  more  confidential  atti- 
tude, "and  that's  this.  I've  al'ays  drawed  the  line 
at  the  little  woman  and  the  kids ;  I've  al'ays  said 
I'd  never  compromise  them  or  their  future,  and  I 
say  that  so  long's  a  man  don't  do  that,  he's  doin'  all 
right." 

For  some  reason  that  morning  Rankin  seemed  to 
be  in  a  soft  and  tender  mood,  and  showed  a  desire 
to  talk  of  his  home  and  its  interests.  Perhaps  it 
was  because  it  was  Sunday,  and  his  wife  had  been 
dressing  him  for  the  day  with  as  much  maternal 
solicitude  as  she  had  dressed  his  children.  Gar- 
wood would  have  preferred  Rankin's  harsher  and 
more  careless  note,  and  because  it  gave  him  a 
chance  to  get  away,  was  glad  when  he  remembered 
that  he  had  promised  his  mother  to  go  to  church 
with  her.  He  knew  how  gratifying  this  would  be 
to  her,  for  in  her  strict  Sabbatarianism  she  had  dis- 
liked his  going  down  town  at  all  that  day ;  and  then. 


146  The  13th   District 

too,  he  had  felt  that  it  would  be  a  politic  thing  to 
do. 

He  went  homeward,  recalling,  word  by  word,  all 
of  his  conversation  with  Rankin,  feeling  a  little 
hurt  at  what  seemed  to  him  Rankin's  coldness, 
troubled  with  suspicions  and  misgivings  that  he 
ascribed  to  the  influence  of  Rankin's  strange  man- 
ner, and  without  the  peace  of  mind  he  thought  he 
should  feel,  now  that  his  election  was  assured. 

He  found  his  mother  with  her  bonnet  on,  and  her 
misshapen  hands  gloved  and  folded,  in  anxious 
waiting. 

"What  time  does  church  begin?"  he  asked. 

"Half-past  ten,  the  last  bell  rings,"  said  Mrs. 
Garwood. 

"My  goodness !"  her  son  exclaimed,  as  he  hur- 
riedly snapped  his  watch  lid  shut,  "I  thought  it 
was  at  eleven  o'clock." 

The  old  lady's  face  winced  with  a  jealous  resent- 
i  ment. 

I  "You're  thinkin'  of  the  'piscopalian  church,"  she 
answered  significantly;  "they  always  does  things 
different." 

They  walked  to  church  while  the  bells  were  ring- 
ing, the  Presbyterian,  Methodist  and  Baptist 
churches  tolling  their  bells  one  after  another,  a 
note  at  a  time,  each  tolerantly  waiting  its  turn, 
though  the  different  keys  in  which  their  bells  were 
pitched  rang  out  in  a  sharp  disharmony  their 
doctrinal  distinctions.  Far  away  over  on  the 
East  Side,  Garwood  heard  the  chimes  of  the  Cath- 
olic church,  holding  aloof  from  all  this  dissonance 


On  the  Stump  147 

of  the  clamoring-  creeds,  while  the  Episcopalians 
had  no  bell  in  their  church,  disdaining  with  a  fine 
superior  quality  of  respectability  to  enter  into  the 
brazen  polemics. 

The  last  bell  had  just  stopped  ringing,  and  its 
dying  tones  were  still  vibrating  through  the  build- 
ing when  they  reached  the  Methodist  church,  and 
were  shown  down  the  aisle  to  Mrs.  Garwood's  pew, 
although  there  was  a  pretense  of  free  pews  in  that 
church.  Garwood  could  feel  the  glances  of  the 
congregation  upon  him  as  he  took  his  seat,  and  he 
liked  the  little  distinction,  although  he  had  grown 
used,  in  the  last  two  months,  to  being  the  central 
figure  of  public  gatherings.  He  recalled  how  care- 
fully the  Monday  morning  papers  chronicled  the 
church  goings  of  the  presidential  candidates  with 
the  fact  that  the  preacher  had  added  something  to 
his  sermon  that  pledged  a  providential  interest  in 
the  success  of  the  nominee  who  had  distinguished 
that  preacher's  church  with  his  presence,  and  Gar- 
wood tried  to  conduct  himself  as  a  great 
man  should,  or  as  he  imagined  he  would  appear 
when,  a  little  later,  he  should  become  a  great  man. 
He  bent  his  head  during  the  prayer,  not  so  low  as 
his  mother  did,  but  at  an  angle  that  would  express 
a  dignified  unworthiness  to  join  in  public  prayer, 
though  giving  the  assurance  at  the  same  time  of  his 
respect  for  it. 

During  the  services,  especially  during  the  preach- 
ing, Garwood  had  much  time  for  thought  and  med- 
itation. His  meditations  were  idle  and  incoherent, 
running  on  Emily,  and  the  afternoon   he    would 


148  The  13  th  District 

spend  with  her ;  on  his  campaign  and  its  impending 
dose.  Through  them  all  ran  a  certain  minor  chord 
of  sadness  and  reproach,  particularly  when  he 
looked  at  his  mother  sitting  there  beside  him,  her 
eyes  raised  behind  their  gold  spectacles  in  the  very 
acme  of  respectful  attention  as  she  tried  to  pierce 
the  meaning  the  preacher  sought  to  crowd  into  his 
sermon  without  making  it  too  long  to  offend  the 
Longworths,  the  rich  family  of  the  congregation, 
who,  striving  to  wear  the  impressive  aspect  of 
prominence  in  the  community,  filled  a  whole  pew. 
Garwood  found  his  thoughts  hardly  tolerable  so 
long  as  he  allowed  them  to  rest  in  the  present.  He 
could  grasp  at  happiness  and  comfort  only  when 
they  built  on  the  surer,  brighter  future  which  soon 
would  open  to  him.  He  found  it  hard,  however,  to 
keep  them  always  building  air  castles;  they  per- 
sisted in  returning  to  the  present,  to  Emily,  to  Ran- 
kin, to  the  campaign,  to  the  mortgage.  He  was  de- 
pressed and  longed  for  the  services  to  end.  They 
seemed  to  stretch  themselves  out  interminably,  with 
pra3'ers  and  hymns  and  anthems,  with  announce- 
ments and  collections,  finally,  after  the  sermon,  with 
the  baptism  of  a  crying  child.  He  felt  as  when  a 
little  boy  he  had  squirmed  during  the  long  two 
hours,  and  as  a  boy  was  glad  when  service  was  over 
— he  was  particularly  glad  that  it  had  not  proved  to 
be  communion  Sunday,  for  that  would  have  made 
it  necessary  for  him  once  more  to  face  a  moral 
problem;  to  decide  on  a  course  of  action;  and  he 
was  wearied  with  moral  problems  and  decisions. 
The  heavy  feeling  that  oppressed  Garwood    in 


On  the  Stump  149 

church,  the  chill  that  checked  the  felicity  he  felt 
himself  now  entitled  to,  remained  with  him.  At 
times  he  would  forget  and  become  happy,  but  as 
soon  as  he  was  conscious  that  he  was  happy,  he 
would  remember  that  there  was  some  reason  why 
he  should  not  be  happy,  and  then  his  memory  would 
swiftly  bring  back  to  him  the  thing  he  had  done. 
By  afternoon  this  constant  recurrence  irritated  him, 
and  he  half  pitied  himself,  thinking  it  unjust  that 
he  should  be  thus  annoyed  when  he  was  so  anxious 
to  be  contented  and  at  peace,  especially  after  all 
the  sacrifices  he  had  made  to  his  mother's  wishes 
during  the  last  sixteen  hours.  And  so  when  he  set 
out  in  the  clear,  shining  afternoon  to  go  to  Emily, 
he  resolved  to  throw  ofif  this  feeling ;  to  cast  it  from 
him ;  to  have  done  with  it  for  all  time.  Physically 
he  expressed  this  resolve  by  the  fling  of  his  head, 
and  the  way  he  set  his  shoulders  back,  holding  them 
high  with  the  will  to  be  all  he  wished  to  be. 

The  house-maid  was  out  for  her  Sunday  after- 
noon holiday,  and  Emily  herself  swung  back  the 
door  in  answer  to  Garwood's  ring.  The  girl 
smiled  radiantly  when  she  saw  him  and,  with  a  lov- 
er's pretense  about  her  spiritual  prescience  of  all 
his  movements,  said  she  knew  it  was  he  at  the  door. 
He  told  her  that  she  had  never  looked  so  beautiful 
before,  and  there  was  much  of  truth  in  this,  for 
she  wore,  with  an  effect  of  having  shown  it  at 
church  for  the  first  time  that  morning,  a  new  fall 
suit,  the  skirt  of  which  vouched  for  the  jacket  that 
had  been  laid  aside  for  the  greater  comfort  of  a  blue 
isilk  bodice,  which  billowed  modestly  at  her  young 


150  The  I  3  th   District 

breast,  giving  her  an  air  of  slightness  and  accen- 
tuating the  delicacy  of  her  whole  person.  Her  eyes 
and  cheeks  were  bright  with  health  and  her  lover's 
coming,  so  that  her  natural  color,  which  made  the 
wearing  of  dark  costumes  an  easy  thing  for  her, 
was  thereby  heightened. 

In  the  moment  they  lingered  in  the  hall,  she  laid 
her  soft  hands  on  his  shoulders,  reaching  up  to  him 
with  a  smile  of  propitiation  to  say : 

"Dade's  here." 

She  was  pleased  when  he  frowned  his  jealous 
disapproval. 

"How  long's  she  going  to  stay?"  he  said  bluntly. 

"Not  long,"  she  replied.  "She  won't  stay  when 
she  knows  you're  here.  Why  didn't  you  let  me 
know  you  were  coming?" 

"I  didn't  know  it  myself,"  he  said.  "I  came  on  a 
telegram  from  Rankin,  and  I  ought  to  go  right  out 
again,  only — I  had  to  stay  and  see  you." 

She  purred  an  instant  in  the  embrace  into  which 
he  drew  her  and  then  quickly  hushed  him  by  point- 
ing toward  the  drawing-room. 

Garwood  had  never  known  Dade  Emerson, 
though  he  had  heard  of  her  from  Emily  in  those 
confidences  with  which  they  tried  to  atone  for  the 
years  that  had  passed  before  love  came  to  them,  by 
recounting  in  detail,  little  by  little,  all  their  happen- 
ings and  relations.  Dade,  to  be  sure,  had  impul- 
sively declared  that  she  remembered  Garwood  as  a 
shock-headed  boy  whose  short  trousers  came  ab- 
jectly below  his  knees,  and  had  identified  him  to 
Emily  as  the  youth  who  had  thrown  a  stone   and 


On  the  Stump  151 

hooted  thein  as  they  were  going  homeward  one  day 
from  the  Misses  Lewis's  school.  Emily  had  glee- 
fully told  this  to  Garwood  and  though  he  had  rec- 
ognized the  picture's  truth,  he  was  ashamed  of  it, 
and  had  denied  it  altogether. 

When  they  entered  the  drawing-room,  and  Emily 
had  presented  Garwood,  there  was  an  instant's  con- 
straint, born  of  Garwood's  uneasiness  in  women's 
society,  an  uneasiness  he  somehow  contrived  to 
make  pass  for  a  Byronic  contempt  of  it,  to  which 
also  contributed  Emily's  solicitude  that  her  lover 
should  meet  the  approval  of  her  friend. 

Dade  sat  listlessly  twirling  a  ring  on  her  strong, 
white  finger,  a  silver  ring  of  curious,  antique  work- 
manship that  helped  the  foreign  effect  she  sought 
in  her  personality,  but  when,  through  her  lashes 
she  saw  Emily  gazing  at  Garwood  with  a  sudden 
access  of  fondness,  she  rather  coldly  said : 

"You  ah  standing  for  the  borough,  I  believe,  ah 
you  not,  Mistah  Gahwood?" 

"I'm  running  for  Congress,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  replied  Garwood  with  an  uncontrollable 
bluntness  that  he  regretted. 

"Oh,  yes ;  that  is  what  you  call  it,  isn't  it  ?  How 
int'resting  you  must  find  it!" 

Garwood  laughed  in  an  effort  to  find  ease. 

"I  find  it  pretty  hard  work,"  he  sighed.  Emily 
noted  the  sigh,  and  pressed  the  hand  she  somehow 
found  between  them. 

"He's  all  worn  out,  Dade,"  she  explained,  and 
the  sense  of  possession  her  tone  implied  put    all 


152  The  13  th  District 

three  on  an  easier  footing.  "You  don't  know  how 
hard  our  political  leaders  have  to  work." 

"To  be  elected?"  asked  Dade. 

"Yes,  to  be  elected,"  said  Garwood,  yielding  him- 
self to  the  pillows  that  were  piled  near  him.  "And 
no  sooner  are  we  elected  once  than  we  have  to  be- 
gin fixing  up  our  fences  for  a  second  term." 

"Fixing  up  yoah  fences?"  said  Dade,  wonder- 
ingly. 

"It's  a  political  phrase,"  explained  Emily. 

"You  have  so  many  of  them,"  said  Dade,  "and 
they  ah  all  so  unintelligible." 

"They  must  strike  a  foreigner  as  peculiar,"  said 
Garwood.    "I  had  never  thought  of  that  before." 

"But  I'm  not  a  fo'eigneh,  you  know,"  the  girl 
protested. 

"Well,  you're  pretty  near  it,"  said  Emily.  "She's 
lived  abroad  all  her  life,  you  know — nearly,"  she 
explained  aside  to  Garwood. 

Garwood  was  pleased  that  the  conversation  had 
taken  a  turn  which  he  could  follow.  With  strange 
women  he  found  small  talk  impossible  as  all  men 
must  who  are  not  versed  in  the  banalities  of  wo- 
men's intercourse,  though  they  indulge  themselves 
for  hours  in  the  trivialities  of  men's  gossip. 

"I  have  never  thought  of  it  before,"  said  Gar- 
wood, "but  most  of  our  political  phrases  savor  of 
our  young  agricultural  life ;  perhaps  I  would  better 
say  our  pioneer  life.  There's  'log-rolling,'  for  in- 
stance, and  'stump  speaking,'  and — " 

"And  setting  the  prairies  on  fiah,"  Dade  added. 


On  the  Stump  153 

"1  saw  in  the  papah  the  othah  day  that  you  weare 
doing  that — on  the  stump,  they  said." 

Garwood  laughed  again,  naturally. 

"That  was  one  of  Rankin's  inspired  tales,  no 
doubt.  Rather  a  mixture  of  figures,  too,  setting  the 
prairies  on  fire  from  the  stump,  don't  you  think? 
And  you  probably  saw  as  well,  that  some  of  the  In- 
dians over  in  Moultrie  have  their  knives  out,  and 
are  after  my  scalp." 

"That  is  more  than  agricultural,  or  pioneerish," 
said  Emily;  "that's  actually  savage." 

"It's  quite  deliciously  American,"  said  Miss  Em- 
erson. 

"And  one  of  the  few  things  the  papers  say  of  me 
that  are  true !"  sighed  Garwood. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  that,"  said  Emily  loyally; 
"isn't  there  just  a  little  truth  in  the  story  about 
your  setting  the  prairies  on  fire?" 

Garwood  laughed,  the  superior  laugh  of  a  man 
alone  with  women.  He  liked  this  political  conver- 
sation which  he  could  so  easily  dominate,  quite  as 
much  as  he  liked  Emily's  frank  acquiescence  before 
Miss  Emerson  in  her  position  as  his  affianced  bride. 
It  gave  him  such  a  sweet  assurance  of  security  in 
one  relation  at  least, 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said;  "a  candidate  never 
does  know  any  more  about  his  own  campaign  than 
a  bridegroom  does  about  the  preparations  for  his 
own  wedding.  To  him  it  all  seems  to  be  going  one 
way ;  he  sees  nothing  but  friendly  faces  and  hears 
nothing  but  friendly  cheers,  and  he  goes  to  bed  the 
night  before  election  almost  hoping  that  his  oppo- 


154  The  13th   District 

nent  may  get  a  few  votes  just  to  console  him, 
though  he  doesn't  see  where  the  votes  are  to  come 
from.  The  morning  after  he  wakes  up  to  wonder 
where  his  own  votes  all  went  to.  It's  always  a 
shock  of  surprise  to  the  defeated  man."  He  paused 
to  enjoy  the  effect  of  his  little  speech  upon  the 
girls,  and  then  resumed :  "If  you  want  to  know 
how  my  campaign  is  really  coming  on  you'll  have 
to  ask  Jim  Rankin." 

"Who  is  this  Mistah  Rankin  ?"  asked  Dade. 

"Oh,"  said  Emily,  turning  toward  her  compan- 
ion with  a  superiority  of  her  own,  "you  remember 
— I  told  you  about  him  the  other  day.  You  really 
should  see  him,  he's  the  funniest  man  and  the  most 
interesting.  He  is  managing  the  campaign  for  Je- 
rome. He  just  worships  Jerome;  I  believe  he'd  die 
for  you,  don't  you,  Jerome?" 

"I've  heard  him  say  he'd  go  through — ah — hell 
and  high  water  for  me,"  said  Garwood  with  the 
keen  enjoyment  that  comes  from  vicarious  profanity 
quoted  in  a  presence  where,  stripped  of  its  quota- 
tion marks,  it  would  be  inadmissible. 

The  two  girls  exclaimed,  though  they  enjoyed 
the  risk  of  it,  and  sat  while  Garwood  celebrated 
Rankin's  virtues  as  a  friend  and  as  a  politician. 
When  he  found  room  for  more  quotable  profanity 
Emily  laid  her  palm  lightly  over  his  mouth,  and  at 
this  demonstration  of  affection  Dade  rose  and  said 
significantly : 

"Well,  I  think  it  high  time  I  was  going  and  leav- 
ing you  alone." 

There  was  a  little  show  of  protest,  but  she  went, 


On  the  Stump  155 

Garwood  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  won- 
dering if  the  proprieties  demanded  that  he  accom- 
pany Emily  as  she  escorted  Dade  to  the  door;  but 
he  withdrew  into  the  security  of  that  dignity  which 
stood  him  in  such  good  stead  in  all  social  crises, 
and  bowed  as  if  the  retiring  girl  were  an  audience 
or  a  jury.  The  two  girls  lingered  in  the  hall  longer 
than  Garwood  thought  necessary,  though  he  lost 
his  objection  in  the  satisfaction  of  the  conviction 
that  they  were  discussing  him. 

Garwood,  of  course,  stayed  to  that  unclassified 
meal  which  is  served  on  Sunday  evenings.  The  re- 
past which  Emily  in  the  absence  of  the  servants 
laid  herself,  was  without  formality,  and  the  girl 
artfully  contrived  to  hide  from  him  the  extra  prep- 
aration that  was  represented  by  the  bowl  of  salad 
she  brought  forth  and  set  in  the  midst  of  the  white 
linen  and  all  the  glitter  of  the  table  service.  Gar- 
wood and  Mr.  Harkness  talked  of  men's  topics  dur- 
ing the  meal  and  Emily  was  silent  with  the  silence 
of  the  woman  in  her  serving,  though  her  eyes 
gleamed  at  the  comradeship  she  thought  she  recog- 
nized in  the  two  men.  She  did  not  know  how  thor- 
oughly the  real  thought  of  each  man  was  with 
her,  though  Garwood  from  time  to  time  reflected 
on  the  comparison  that  might  be  made  between  the 
plainness  of  his  mother's  table  on  Sunday  evenings 
and  the  elegance  of  the  one  at  which  he  now  ex- 
panded himself. 

It  was  late  when  he  went  home  that  night.  As 
he  left  he  told  Emily,  in  their  lengthened  farewells, 
that  it  had  been  the  happiest  Sunday  he  had  ever 
known. 


XVIII 


EVERYWHERE  the  campaign  was  closing, 
as  the  newspapers  said,  in  a  blaze  of  glory. 
From  their  headquarters  in  New  York  the 
managers  of  the  two  great  parties  were  issuing 
their  last  impossible  claims,  their  last  careful  in- 
structions, their  last  solemn  warnings.  Partisan 
hatred  raged  in  every  hamlet  in  the  land,  and  the 
whole  nation  was  given  over  to  the  last  passion  of 
its  quadrennial  tragedy  of  personal  ambitions. 

Down  in  the  Thirteenth  Congressional  District 
of  Illinois,  Garwood  was  making  his  final  tour  of 
the  seven  counties,  speaking  many  times  daily.  He 
was  disheveled  and  bedraggled,  he  went  without 
shaving,  without  sleeping,  much  of  the  time  with- 
out food.  He  had  turned  into  a  mere  smiling 
automaton,  that  could  drink,  talk  in  a  husky  voice, 
and  go  on  and  on.  Insensible  to  bodily  fatigue  and 
discomfort,  his  only  physical  sensation  was  a  con- 
stant longing  for  tobacco,  and  he  smoked  all  the 
time. 

At  home,  Rankin  had  finished  all  his  plans.  He 
had  completed  a  second  poll,  which  he  had  had 
taken  by  school  districts,  and  the  thousand  dollars 
Garwood  had  given  him  on  the  Monday  morning 
before  starting  on  his  final  campaigning  tour 
he  was  hoarding  for  election  day.  His  own 
confidence  was  such  that,  when  Mr.  Harkness,  in 
is6 


On  the  Stump  157 

the  interest  he  could  not  conceal,  one  day  asked 
about  the  outlook,  he  was  able  to  say: 

"We're  all  right  if  they  don't  buy  us." 

Rankin  had  determined  that  Garwood's  cam- 
paign should  close  with  a  splendid  spectacle  of  fire 
in  his  home  town.  He  had  roused  the  county  com- 
mittee to  a  frenzy  of  action,  he  had  compelled  the 
candidates  on  the  county  ticket  to  make  one  final 
contribution  to  the  campaign  fund,  and  as  Gar- 
wood's share  of  the  great  meeting  Rankin  engaged 
a  band,  and  kept  this  action  so  constantly  before  his 
fellow-committeemen  that  their  own  efforts  seemed 
paltry  and  puny  in  comparison  with  his.  When 
the  last  Sunday  night  came,  and  but  one  more  day 
remained,  he  said  to  his  sleepy  wife  as  he  came 
home  far  in  the  chill  hours  of  the  morning: 

"Well,  mamma,  we've  got  'em  licked — but  they 
don't  know  it." 

Emily  celebrated  the  evening  of  the  meeting  by 
asking  Mrs.  Garwood  with  Dade  and  her  mother 
to  supper,  after  which  they  were  to  be  driven  to 
the  opera  house  early  enough  to  obtain  good  seats 
for  the  speaking.  Emily  had  hoped  to  have  Gar- 
wood himself  there,  but  at  the  last  moment  a  tele- 
gram came  from  him  at  Mt.  Pulaski  saying  that 
his  train  was  late  and  he  would  have  to  go  directly 
from  the  station  to  the  opera  house  to  be  in  time 
for  his  speech.  Dade  came  and  brought  her 
mother's  excuses,  though  not  their  querulousness, 
and  by  her  affectations  troubled  Mrs.  Garwood, 
already  constrained  by  the  embarrassment  of  a 
meal  too  elaborate  for  her  comfort. 


158  The  13  th   District 

The  supper  was  hardly  over  when  the  prelim- 
inary pounding  of  a  bass  drum  came  to  their  ears, 
and  Emily  and  Dade  fluttered  out  on  the  veranda 
as  excitedly  as  the  little  boys  who  raced  up  and 
down  the  avenue  shouting  that  the  parade  was 
coming,  and  saluting  it  with  premature  fanfaron- 
ades on  their  tin  horns.  Sangamon  Avenue  did 
not  twinkle  with  Japanese  lanterns  this  night  as  it 
had  on  the  night  of  the  Bromley  meeting,  for  Gar- 
wood's social  position  was  not  that  of  Bromley's, 
and  the  rich  therefore  did  not  so  readily  identify 
themselves  with  his  cause,  but  the  boys  were  bi- 
partisan and  now  and  then  the  big  flags  that  swung 
over  the  lawns  all  summer  were  illumined  by  the 
red  fire  which  some  youngster,  unable  to  restrain 
his  impatience,  had  set  o&.  Occasionally  a  line  of 
torches  would  undulate  across  the  avenue  several 
blocks  away,  and  then  the  wild  announcements  of 
the  boys  would  arouse  even  their  waiting  elders  on 
the  porches;  but  there  were  many  of  these  false 
alarms,  so  many,  that  Dade  declared  that  the 
parade  was  a  failure  and  would  not  pass  that  way. 

But  at  last  it  came.  They  heard  the  strains  of  a 
band  swelling  loud  as  some  distant  corner  was 
turned,  then,  in  the  darkness  of  the  November 
night,  far  away  through  the  trees,  they  caught  the 
lick  of  a  torch's  flame,  then  another  and  another, 
until  they  made  a  river  of  yellow  fire  that  poured 
itself  down  the  street  from  curb  to  curb,  rising  and 
falling  as  the  marchers'  feet  kept  time  to  the 
punctuated  rolling  of  the  drums.  Along  the  side- 
walks streamed  a  crowd  of  boys,  and  men  like  boys, 


On  the  Stump  159 

the  same  that  had  trudged  through  the  dust  beside 
Garwood's  carriage  that  hot  day  in  August,  the 
same  that  had  flanked  the  Bromley  parade  a  few 
weeks  before. 

The  girls  had  been  followed  to  the  veranda  by 
Mr.  Harkness  and  Mrs.  Garwood,  and  as  the  old 
man  and  the  old  woman  pressed  forward  in  an 
interest  they  disliked  to  own,  the  two  girls  clutch- 
ing each  other  at  last  in  a  definite  embrace  teetered 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  steps,  their  teeth  chattering 
with  nervousness.  Jasper  had  driven  the  carriage 
around  and  stood  at  the  heads  of  the  horses,  who 
pricked  their  ears  towards  the  oncoming  mass  of 
men  and  fire,  and  gazed  at  it  with  startled  eyes, 
jerking  their  heads  now  and  then  and  blowing 
through  their  soft  sensitive  nostrils. 

The  procession  had  drawn  so  near  that  it  was 
possible  to  distinguish  the  details  that  made  the 
mass,  the  four  policemen,  in  double-breasted  sack 
coats  who  had  been  announced  as  a  platoon ;  the 
grand  marshal  of  the  parade,  decked  out  bravely  in 
rosettes  and  patriotic  bunting,  trying  to  sit  his 
buggy-horse  with  the  military  seat;  the  flag  bearer, 
.with  bent  back,  straining  under  his  load ;  the  faces 
of  the  marchers  themselves  red  and  unfamiliar  in 
the  glare  that  lit  them  up,  like  faces  transfigured 
in  the  glamour  that  saves  a  tableau  from  contempt. 

There  were  clubs  from  each  ward,  uniformed  in 
the  oil-cloth  capes  and  caps  of  that  day,  with  wide 
intervals  between  their  sets  of  fours,  and  eked  out 
by  small  boys  in  the  rear  ranks ;  there  was  a  com- 
pany of  railroad  men — at  least  their  transparencies 


i6o  The  I  3  th  District 

said  they  were  railroad  men — wearing  overalls,  and 
swinging  lighted  lanterns,  and  these  were  vouch- 
safed most  patronizing  applause  from  the  lawns 
and  verandas,  as  if  they  were  nobly  sacrificing 
themselves  for  the  salvation  of  their  nation.  The 
lines  were  well  formed,  and  marched  with  an  effect 
of  military  precision,  though  the  procession  had  to 
stop  now  and  then  to  mark  time  and  dress  its 
intervals. 

When  the  marching  hosts  saw  the  Harkness 
house  all  ablaze  from  top  to  bottom  they  recognized 
their  candidate's  relation  to  the  first  quality  of  the 
town  by  venting  a  sentimental  cheer,  waving  their 
torches  above  their  heads,  and  throwing  the  flames 
into  the  air.  Then  the  grand  marshal,  holding  on 
to  pommel  and  cantle,  twisted  his  huge  haunches 
in  the  saddle,  and  shouted  some  mighty  order, 
which,  though  wholly  unintelligible  to  everybody, 
and  to  the  marchers  more  than  anybody,  at  once 
created  a  vast  commotion  down  the  fiery  line.  His 
hoarse  words,  or  some  hoarse  words,  were  repeated, 
tossed  as  it  were  from  one  throat  to  another,  the 
marshal's  aides  galloped  wildly  up  and  down  until 
at  last  the  torches  began  to  dance  in  varying  direc- 
tions as  the  column  executed  some  complex 
manoeuver  that  wrought  a  change  in  its  formation. 
And  then  the  marshal,  in  a  way  that  no  doubt 
reminded  himself  of  a  Napoleon,  or  a  Grant,  turned 
about  in  his  saddle,  squeezed  his  plodding  horse's 
ribs  with  his  spurless  heels,  and,  under  his  slouch 
hat,  glanced  from  left  to  right  like  Stonewall 
Jackson. 


On  the  Stump  i6i 

At  the  same  moment  a  drum-major  shrilled 
his  whistle,  and  twirled  his  baton,  a  cornet  trilled 
and  the  band  began  to  play: 

"When  Johnny  comes  marching  home  again, 
Hurrah,  hurrah!" 

The  two  girls  emotionally  trod  a  dancing  meas- 
ure, and  then,  because  of  the  smell  of  saltpeter, 
the  snorts  of  horses,  the  shouts  of  men,  the  red 
and  white  ripple  of  the  flags  that  went  careering 
by  in  smoke  and  flame,  some  strange  suggestion  of 
the  war  our  political  contests  typify,  in  spirit  and 
symbol  at  least,  was  borne  to  them,  until  they  felt 
what  they  conceived  to  be  patriotic  thrills  coursing 
up  and  down  their  spines. 

"Don't  you  love  the  dear  old  flag,  after  all, 
Dade?"  cried  Emily,  above  the  noise.  The  girl 
pressed  her  companion's  waist  in  response. 

"Yes,  but  it's  a  rebel  tune  they're  playing,"  said 
old  Mrs.  Garwood,  dubiously  wagging  her  head  in 
its  bonnet. 

"Oh,  we're  all  one  now!"  said  Mr.  Harkness, 
and  then  blew  his  nose  in  chagrin  at  this  show  of 
feeling. 

They  stood  and  shivered  in  the  cold  night  air  and 
watched  the  parade  go  by,  read  the  transparencies 
with  their  boasting  inscriptions,  praised  the  various 
regalia  of  the  marchers,  kept  time  to  the  singing 
of  the  bugles  and  the  going  of  the  drums,  and 
cheered  when  fifty  men  from  Cotton  Wood  town- 
ship, wearing  coon-skin  caps  and  followed  by  dogs, 


i62  The  13  th   District 

trotted  by  on  their  heavy  plow  horses.  Finally 
a  rabble  of  boys  and  negroes  brought  up  the  rear, 
snatching  extinguished  torches,  half-burned  roman 
candles  or  sticks  of  red  fire  to  make  a  little  cele- 
bration, and  the  parade  had  passed. 

When  Emily  and  her  party  reached  the  opera 
house,  the  sidewalk  was  cumbered  with  the  loafers 
who  always  gathered  there  when  the  place  of 
amusement  was  opened,  and  people  were  streaming 
up  the  wide  stairway  into  the  hall.  Mr.  Harkness 
led  the  women  to  seats  toward  the  front  of  the 
house,  where  they  joined  the  scattered  folk  already 
sitting  there,  fanning  themselves  in  the  air  that  was 
overheated  by  the  blazing  gas  jets,  talking,  laugh- 
ing, whiling  away  the  long  time  they  had  to  wait 
for  their  entertainment  to  begin.  Up  in  the  dim 
and  dusty  gallery  boys  were  improving  an  oppor- 
tunity of  liberty  by  clattering  over  the  wooden 
benches,  calling  to  one  another,  whistling,  dinning 
the  night  with  the  noises  boys  love. 

The  stage  was  furnished  with  a  table,  and  on  it 
were  the  white  pitcher  and  the  waiting  glass  from 
which  orators  quench  their  ever-raging  thirst.  The 
table's  legs  were  hidden  by  a  flag,  in  the  folds  of 
which  was  a  picture  of  the  candidate  for  president. 
The  stage  had  been  set  with  the  theater's  gray- 
walled  drawing-room  scene — the  one  with  the  fres- 
coed curtains  and  tassels — and  an  effort  had  been 
made  to  warm  the  cold  and  cheerless  setting  of  so 
many  domestic  comedies  and  kingly  tragedies  by  a 
further  use  of  flags  and  bunting  and  a  few  pic- 
tures.    Among  them  was  one  of  Garwood,  which 


On  the  Stump  163 

Emily  recognized  after  study,  and  resented,  be- 
cause of  the  fierce  cast  in  the  eye,  and  the  aged 
droop  to  the  mouth.  They  left  old  Mrs.  Garwood 
in  the  dark  as  to  the  identity  of  that  portrait. 

The  stage  was  filled  with  wooden  chairs,  ashen- 
white  in  their  unpainted  newness.  The  vice-presi- 
dents, for  whom  these  chairs  were  intended,  had 
not  arrived,  but  presently  they  began  to  tiptoe 
awkwardly  across  the  stage,  and  then  seat  them- 
selves, troubled  about  the  disposition  of  their  feet 
before  the  unaccustomed  footlights.  They  coughed 
into  their  hands  from  time  to  time,  and  were 
obviously  glad  when  some  black-garbed  companion 
came  to  share  their  misery  and  let  them  pretend 
the  ease  they  sought  by  talking  to  him.  The  stage 
filled,  and  some  began  looking  at  their  watches. 
At  eight  o'clock  the  hall  was  full ;  the  meeting  was 
certain  to  be  a  success  anyway.  Ten  minutes  more 
passed  by.  The  committee  arrived  and  seated  itself 
on  the  stage.  The  Glee  Club  came  and  cleared  its 
four  throats.  Outside  the  noise  of  the  disbanding 
parade  could  be  heard  and  then  the  rush  of  the 
marchers  to  get  indoors.  The  band  clambered  up 
to  the  gallery,  ousted  a  whole  section  to  make  a 
fitting  place  for  itself  down  by  the  railing,  then  at 
half-past  eight  began  to  play  a  medley  of  national 
airs,  and  though  the  strains  of  America,  Columbia, 
The  Red,  White  and  Blue,  Dixie,  Marching 
Through  Georgia  and  Yankee  Doodle  filled  the 
theater,  the  atmosphere  was  charged  with  the  sus- 
pense of  long  waiting. 

Suddenly,    while    the    band    was    playing,    a 


i64  The  13  th   District 

wave  of  excitement  swept  over  the  audience; 
there  was  a  commotion  at  the  door,  a  shuffle  of 
feet,  a  scraping  of  chairs.  The  vice-presidents 
craned  their  necks  to  peer  over  the  black-coated 
shoulders  in  front  of  them,  people  ceased  their  fan- 
ning and  twisted  about  in  their  seats  to  look,  a 
rattle  of  clapping  hands  broke  forth,  a  cheer  arose, 
the  floor  began  to  tremble  and  vibrate  beneath 
stamping  feet,  and  then  the  building  shook  with 
heavy  applause. 

And  all  at  once  Emily  saw  Jim  Rankin,  rubi- 
cund, his  curls  sticking  to  his  wet  forehead, 
smiling  always,  leading  the  way  up  a  side  aisle, 
and  behind  him  Garwood,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  his 
overcoat  on  his  arm.  She  saw  him  run  his  free 
hand  through  his  hair  to  loosen  it,  then  shake  it 
back  with  that  royal  toss  of  the  head  she  knew  so 
well,  and  stride  on,  his  face  white,  his  eyes  dark, 
his  mouth  firmly  closed  on  the  level  line  of  his 
lips. 

The  house  rocked  with  tfie  storm  of  cheers,  with 
cries  of  his  name,  but  he  marched  straight  on,  be- 
hind his  smihng  Rankin,  who  responded  to  the 
greetings  of  men  who  rose  from  chairs  or  pressed 
themselves  flat  against  the  walls  to  give  room  in  the 
aisle.  The  little  party  disappeared  behind  the 
scenes,  and  the  ovation  lulled. 

Emily  felt  her  throat  close  and  feared  the  tears 
that  already  moistened  her  eyes.  She  tried  to  com- 
pose her  features,  she  crushed  Dade's  arm  in  her 
fingers,  then  she  stole  a  glance  at  those  about  her. 
Everybody   was   looking  at   Garwood,   everybody 


On  the  Stump  165 

save  one,  her  father;  he  was  looking  at  her,  while 
Mrs.  Garwood,  having  found  her  handkerchief, 
held  it  in  her  work-worn  hands  just  as  it  had  come 
from  the  iron  that  afternoon,  fresh  and  clean,  keep- 
ing her  eyes  fixed  on  the  stage,  watching  for  her 
boy  to  appear  again,  while  tears  rolled  unchecked 
down  her  cheeks. 

And  then  Emily  heard  Dade  whisper: 

"Wondah  why  they  didn't  come  in  by  the  stage 
entrance  ?" 

Rankin  and  Garwood  had  stepped  on  the  stage, 
and  the  applause  had  broken  forth  again.  Gar- 
wood had  taken  out  a  big  white  handkerchief  and 
was  wiping  his  brow.  He  was  smiling  now,  and 
greeting  the  vice-presidents  of  the  meeting,  who 
stretched  their  bodies  across  their  neighbors'  knees 
to  shake  his  hand.  Rankin,  too,  was  mopping  his 
forehead,  and  he  had  his  watch  out.  As  soon  as  he 
saw  that  Garwood  was  seated,  he  stepped  to  the 
front  of  the  stage,  his  red  face  round  with  smiles. 
Then  suddenly  his  smile  died,  his  face  blanched, 
and  he  tapped  the  decorated  table  with  the  gavel 
that  lay  on  it.  He  took  a  swallow  of  the  water 
he  supposed  was  in  the  glass,  and  at  last  his  voice 
came: 

"Friends  an'  fellow  citizens,"  he  said,  though 
not  many  could  hear  him,  "will  you  come  to  order, 
an'  I  now  have  the  honor  of  interducin'  to  you 
Judge  Bickerstaff,  who  will  preside  at  this  meetin' 
as  permanent  chairman." 

Rankin  retired  amid  a  volley  of  hand-claps, 
which  the  rotund  judge,  advancing  to  the  front  of 


i66  The  I  3  th   District 

the  stage,  buttoning  his  frock  coat  about  him, 
thought  were  meant  for  him.  He  bowed  ponder- 
ously, and  then,  with  one  hand  on  the  table  beside 
him,  began  the  platitudinous  speech  of  the  perma- 
nent chairman.  The  people  bore  with  him  in  that 
divine  patience  to  which  the  American  public  has 
schooled  itself  under  this  oft-recurring  ordeal,  and 
even  gave  him  some  perfunctory  applause.  But 
the  quality  of  the  applause  was  spontaneous  only 
when  he  reached  the  place  where  he  said: 

"I  now  have  the  very  great  honor  and  the  very 
great  pleasure  of  introducing  to  you  your  next 
congressman,  the  Honorable  Jerome  B.  Garwood." 
Jerry  arose  at  the  sound  of  his  own  name  and, 
advancing  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  stood  there 
calm  and  composed  until  the  applause  died  away; 
stood  there  calm  and  composed  until  the  silence 
came  and  deepened.  He  looked  over  the  whole 
audience,  at  the  galleries  even,  and  then  his  eye 
traveled  unerringly  to  the  spot  where  his  own  sat. 
He  looked  at  his  mother,  gazing  up  at  him  through 
her  dim  spectacles,  at  Dade  who  smiled,  at  Mr. 
Harkness  who  was  stern,  at  last  at  Emily.  Their 
eyes  met,  and  as  Emily's  fell  she  heard  his  voice 
in  low,  musical  modulation: 

"Mr.  Chairman,  ladies  and  gentlemen." 

And  his  last  speech  of  the  campaign  began. 

Whenever  in  Grand  Prairie  they  discuss  Jerry 
Garwood's  oratory,  they  shake  their  heads  and  say 
that  he  made  the  speech  of  his  life  that  last  night 
before  election. 


XIX 


IT  was  election  night  in  Chicago  and  already  a 
great  crowd  thronged  the  Webster  House,  a 
crowd,  as  was  perhaps  fitting  in  a  land  where 
the  avocation  of  every  man  is  governing,  composed 
wholly  of  men,  although  in  one  corner  of  the 
balcony  that  ran  around  the  rotunda  of  the  old 
hotel  there  were  several  women.  The  splendor  that 
had  been  produced  in  their  dress  by  the  competi- 
tion of  a  public  dining-room,  proclaimed  them  as 
regular  boarders,  and  as  an  additional  evidence  of 
their  lot  in  life,  they  had  that  air  of  detachment 
from  their  husbands  which  most  hotel  ladies  soon 
or  late  come  to  wear.  As  they  leaned  over  the 
balcony,  their  jewels  and  teeth  and  white  hands 
flashed  nervously,  as  if  they  shared  the  excitement 
of  the  crowd  below.  For  them,  as  it  might  for  any 
one,  the  great  crowd  possessed  a  never  failing  in- 
terest. Looking  down  they  saw  it  continually  in 
uneasy  motion  like  a  herd  of  milling  cattle.  Here 
and  there  were  nucleated  groups  of  men  engaged  in 
belated  political  argument  or  in  hedging  political 
bets,  here  and  there  some  tired  outcast  glad  of  the 
temporary  warmth  and  light,  shivered  in  ragged 
summer  garments  that  the  long  day's  rain  had 
drenched,  here  and  there  some  messenger  boy 
dodged  along,  here  and  there  some  reporter  el- 
bowed his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  here  and 
167 


i68  The  1 3  th  District 

there  a  wide  track  was  marked  by  the  more  im- 
portant progress  of  some  politician.  Over  the  head 
of  the  crowd  hung  a  stratus  of  tobacco  smoke,  and 
all  the  while  arose  a  multitudinous  voice,  laughing, 
swearing,  cheering.  Constantly  arms  were  flung 
into  the  air,  and  sometimes  a  hat  went  spinning  up 
to  the  dark  skylight  on  which  a  November  rain 
endlessly  drummed. 

Up  the  wide  staircase  and  down  the  hall,  car- 
peted with  canvas  ever  since  the  campaign  opened, 
men  trailed  their  dripping  umbrellas,  passing  in 
and  out  of  the  suite  of  parlors  where  the  state 
central  committee  had  its  headquarters.  The 
outer  rooms  were  crowded  with  men,  their  gar- 
ments steaming  from  the  rain,  their  faces  dripping 
with  perspiration,  their  dirty  fingers  holding 
chewed  cigars.  Some  of  them  were  drunk  and 
quarrelsome,  and  now  and  then  the  policeman  who 
leaned  against  the  doors  spoke  confidentially  to 
these,  deprecating  the  trouble  he  could  so  easily 
bring  upon  them.  The  desk  of  the  secretary  was 
closed  and  wore  an  air  of  having  been  closed  finally. 
On  the  floor  were  piles  of  blank  nominating  peti- 
tions that  never  would  be  used,  bundles  of  news- 
papers that  never  would  be  read,  and  heaps  of  cam- 
paign literature  that  never  would  be  distributed. 
In  a  corner  where  three  or  four  sample  torches 
stood  was  a  pile  of  lithographs,  and  from  them  the 
faces  of  candidates,  as  if  they  still  posed  before 
the  people,  looked  out  with  the  same  solemn  ex- 
pressions they  had  worn  for  the  campaign.  Out- 
side, from  a  wire  that  was  stretched  to  the  building 


On  the  Stump  169 

on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  the  big  campaign 
banner  could  be  heard  booming  in  the  wind. 

In  the  innermost  of  the  committee's  apartments 
only  a  few  men  had  been  admitted,  men  who  that 
year,  at  least,  were  the  managers  of  the  party's 
policies  in  the  state.  In  this  room  was  Garwood. 
He  had  voted  early  that  morning  and  had  then 
taken  a  train  for  Chicago,  in  order  to  be  in  the  very 
center  of  the  night's  excitement. 

As  he  sat  there  in  a  deep  leather  chair  he  could 
hear  the  ring  of  cab-horses'  hoofs  on  the  glisten- 
ing cobble  stones  of  the  street  below ;  the  shouts 
of  election  night,  now  and  then  the  blare  of  a  tin 
horn.  From  Washington  Street,  two  blocks  away, 
a  cheer,  mellowed  pleasantly  by  the  distance,  came 
from  the  crowd  before  the  newspaper  offices,  where 
the  returns  were  being  flashed  upon  screens,  and 
from  below  always  ascended  that  endless  roar. 
From  the  entresol  a  deep  voice  was  reading  the 
bulletins  to  the  multitude  in  the  rotunda.  Garwood 
caught  snatches  of  what  the  voice  was  reading: 

"Four  hundred  and  twenty-nine  precincts  in 
Brooklyn  and  Kings  County  show  net  gains — " 

Once  he  heard  the  inevitable  news  that  Missis- 
sippi had  gone  overwhelmingly  Democratic,  and 
Vermont  overwhelmingly  Republican,  and  then  the 
quadrennial  laugh  with  which  these  foregone  con- 
clusions are  received  and  the  quadrennial  cheers 
with  which  partisanship  dutifully  celebrates  them. 
But,  though  he  heard,  he  was  scarcely  conscious  of 
it  all ;  it  sounded  far  away  to  him  and  strange.  His 
thoughts   lay  too  deep  for  these  objective  mani- 


170  The   13  th   District 

festations.  The  crisis  of  his  hfe,  he  felt,  had  come. 
He  was  with  men  who  hke  himself  were  candidates, 
or  else  the  managers  of  candidates,  and  yet  he  felt 
that  the  result  of  the  election  meant  more  to  him 
than  it  did  to  them. 

He  had  risked  all  on  this  campaign;  he  had 
abandoned  his  practice,  staked  his  reputation,  spent 
all  his  money,  gone  in  debt,  all  he  was  or  had  was 
involved — Emily  with  the  rest.  He  felt  that  if  he 
were  defeated  she  would  be  lost  to  him.  He 
looked  at  Colonel  Warfield,  the  chairman  of  the 
state  executive  committee,  sitting  at  the  table  in 
the  center  of  the  room,  a  pad  of  paper  before 
him,  idly  turning  a  pencil  over  and  over  in  his 
fingers  as  he  considered  the  import  of  the  latest 
returns.  Garwood  wondered  if  he  were  really  as 
calm  as  he  appeared.  He  looked  at  the  others  in 
the  room,  laughing  and  joking  as  they  were — no, 
it  could  not  matter  to  them  as  it  did  to  him ;  they 
had  position,  money,  influence;  politics  was  to 
them  a  kind  of  recreation.  They  lolled  in  chairs, 
smoking  at  their  ease,  not  caring  to  anticipate  the 
strain  of  the  long,  uncertain  hours  of  the  night, 
but  content  to  sit  in  silence  with  their  heads  thrown 
back,  trying  to  blow  rings  of  smoke  to  the  ceiling. 
Once  Parrish  said : 

"It's  like  waiting  for  a  jury,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  some  one  else,  "but,  thank  God,  this 
is  a  jury  that  can't  hang." 

"Maybe  not/'  said  old  General  Williams,  who 
had  been  in  Congress  for  twenty  years,  represent- 
ing a  safe  district  that  he  considered  his  by  divine 


On  the  Stump  171 

right,  "but  it  can  stay  out  a  long  time.  I  remember, 
once — " 

The  danger  of  WilHams's  reminiscence  was 
averted  by  the  click  of  the  telegraph  instrument. 
The  operator  seized  his  stylus  and  began  to  write 
rapidly.  Warfield  took  the  new  bulletin  from  the 
telegrapher's  outstretched  hand  and  studied  it  with 
knitted  brows.  He  read  it  aloud  finally,  and  then 
commented : 

"If  that  gain  keeps  up  in  New  York  he'll  come 
down  to  Harlem  bridge  with  less  than  seventy 
thousand.  It'll  give  us  the  state  and  the  presi- 
dency." 

He  laid  his  pencil  down  and  lighted  a  cigar,  but 
he  did  not  relax  his  interest. 

"Here's  something,"  he  said  a  moment  later, 
spreading  a  piece  of  yellow  flimsy  over  a  white 
sheet,  "here's  one  from  Springfield ;  says  returns 
from  thirty  counties  show  net  gains  over  two  years 
ago  of  eleven  per  cent.  Let's  see — 'In  these  coun- 
ties,' he  read,  'Chatham  polls  forty-three  thousand 
one  hundred  and  seventy-nine.  Norton,  for  state 
treasurer,  carried  the  same  counties  two  years  ago 
by  seventeen  thousand  two  hundred  and  thirty- 
six.'  " 

The  men  in  the  room  stirred  with  a  pleasing 
excitement.  Several  of  them  began  to  talk  again, 
but  the  colonel  said  rather  peremptorily: 

"Wait!  Here's  some  West  Side  news," — New- 
man, who  was  standing  for  the  Fourth  Congres- 
sional District,  arose  as  the  chairman  read: 

"Three  of  the  five  wards  comprising  the  Fourth 


172  The  13  th   District 

Congressional  District,  the  Eighth,  the  Ninth,  and 
the  Nineteenth,  give  Newman  eleven  thousand 
nine  hundred  and  thirty-eight,  Kenyon  five  thou- 
sand six  hundred  and  forty-seven." 

Newman  drew  a  long,  full  breath,  and  smiled 
complacently 

"How  will  the  other  wards  go,  John?"  asked 
Parrish. 

"Oh,  they're  all  right.  I  carried  the  Eleventh  by 
a  hundred  and  fifty-six  two  years  ago,"  said  New- 
man, speaking  with  the  accuracy  with  which  a  man 
remembers  his  own  majorities,  "and  lost  the 
Twelfth  by  sixteen  ninety-four,  but  I  can  give  him 
both  of  them  and  beat  him  out." 

Garwood  envied  him  keenly. 

The  operator  was  writing  furiously  now,  and 
kept  his  left  arm,  with  a  despatch  dangling  in  his 
fingers,  almost  continually  stretched  over  the  back 
of  his  chair  toward  Warfield.  The  colonel  made 
his  calculations  rapidly. 

"Here  you  are.  General,"  he  said  to  Williams 
after  awhile,  and  the  white-bearded  old  man  took 
a  despatch  from  him  and  carefully  adjusted  his 
glasses.  Then  he  hitched  his  chair  up  to  the  table, 
cleared  a  place  for  his  elbows,  took  some  paper  and 
began  to  make  figures  of  his  own. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said  presently,  "I  claim  my 
election  by  a  majority  of  four  thousand  votes." 

"What  was  your  majority  two  years  ago?"  asked 
Milton. 

"Why,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  at  Milton 
as    if   he    were    betraying    a    culpable    ignorance. 


On  the  Stump  173 

"three  thousand  two  hundred  and  ninety-six.  Don't 
you  remember?" 

"Oh  yes,"  lied  Milton. 

"Seems  popular  in  his  district,  doesn't  he?"  whis- 
pered Garwood. 

"Popular !  No  one  can  beat  the  old  blatherskite. 
Wish  he  had  to  run  in  my  district  once !"  Milton 
spoke  out  of  the  bitterness  the  fierce  contests  of  a 
close  district  had  worked  in  him.  Just  then  a 
number  of  reporters,  moving  in  a  body  like  a  com- 
mittee, came  to  interview  Colonel  Warfield. 

The  colonel  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  smiling,  he  said :  "You  probably  know  more 
than  I  about  it,  but  you  can  say  for  me  that  at 
eleven  o'clock" — he  looked  at  his  watch — "basing 
my  calculations  on  incomplete  returns  from  sev- 
enty-five counties  in  the  state,  I  claim  the  election 
of  Governor  Chatham  and  the  entire  state  ticket 
by  thirty-three  thousand  majority." 

"These  others  have  scored  already,"  said  An- 
thony, the  secretary  of  the  committee,  waving  at 
General  Williams,  at  Milton  and  at  Newman  the 
corn-cob  pipe  for  which  he  was  famous  all  over  the 
state,  "all  except  Garwood  there;  he'll  be  in  after 
while." 

Outside  the  noise  was  growing  louder.  They 
could  hear  cheering  from  the  rotunda,  and  in  the 
streets  the  crowds  pouring  out  of  the  theater  added 
to  the  din.  The  noise  had  a  new  quality  of  wildness 
in  it  that  comes  with  the  approach  of  midnight. 
Schreiber,  who  had  been  put  on  the  state  ticket 
for  auditor  because  of  his  German  name,  had  long 


174  The  13  th  District 

ago  claimed  his  own  election  by  a  safe  majority, 
and  had  made  many  trips  down  to  the  bar.    He  was 
a  fat  man,  plainly  a  connoisseur  of  Rhine  wines; 
and  you  might  almost  have  said  he  was  humid,  so 
moist  was  his  rosy  skin.     He  did  not  emit  a  Ger- 
man "Hoch!"  as  would  have  befitted  his  person- 
ahty,  but  he  continually  boomed  forth  pleasantries, 
congratulating  the  other  successful  candidates.    But 
from  these  general  felicitations  Garwood  was  ex- 
cluded.    For  an  hour  his  hopes  had  been  sinking. 
Rankin  had  promised  to  telegraph  as  soon  as  he 
had  anything  definite,  but  no  word  had  come  from 
him.     Though   the  returns   from   down   the   state 
were  coming  in  rapidly  those  from  his  own  district 
had  been  meager,  and  from  what  he  already  knew 
he  was  convinced  that  he  was  running  behind  the 
head  of  the  ticket,  both  national    and    state.     It 
seemed  to  be  well  established  by  midnight  that  his 
party  had  swept  both  the  state  and  the  nation,  and 
he  seemed  to  be  the  only  one  thus  far  left  out.    He 
pitied  himself,  he  began  to  feel  that  the  open  tri- 
umph of  the  successful  ones  about  him  was  indeli- 
cate and  in  bad  taste ;  he  felt  that  they  should  show 
him  more  consideration.     But  they  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  him  in  the  realization  of  their  own  joy, 
and  Garwood  could  only  smile  grimly  at  the  irony 
of  it  all. 

At  midnight  whistles  blew  all  over  the  city,  as  if 
it  were  New  Year's,  and  just  then  Larry  O'Neil 
came  in,  crying: 

"We've  got  'em,  Cook  County's  ours  by  fifty 
thousand.    Beats  hell^  don't  it?" 


On  the  Stump  175 

"How  are  they  feeling  down  at  the  Grand?" 
asked  Anthony.  The  headquarters  of  the  other 
committee  were  at  the  Grand. 

"Oh,  they've  shut  up  down  there,"  said  the  man, 
"and  gone  home.    They  seen  it  'as  no  use." 

"Yes,"  said  Warfield,  laying  down  his  pencil  as 
if  he  had  no  further  need  for  it,  "it's  a  landslide." 

At  one  o'clock  the  telegraph  instrument  ceased 
its  chatter  and  the  telegraph  operator  began  to  un- 
roll his  little  package  of  lunch.  As  the  odor  of  the 
buttered  bread  and  the  cold  meat  he  spread  on  a 
clean  sheet  of  paper  before  him  became  perceptible 
in  the  room,  the  men  there  felt  for  the  first  time 
that  night  the  pangs  of  hunger,  and  Colonel  War- 
field  said : 

"What  do  you  say  to  our  going  down  to  the  cafe 
and  having  a  bite  to  eat?" 

Down  in  the  cafe,  the  men  grouped  themselves 
about  two  tables  which  Warfield  told  the  head 
waiter  to  place  end  to  end,  and  the  meal  he  ordered 
soon  became  a  banquet.  As  they  sat  there  talking 
in  excited  tones,  laughing  at  old  stories  of  by-gone 
campaigns,  laughing  even  at  the  defeats  of  by-gone 
campaigns,  as  they  could  afford  to  now,  many  men 
passing  through  stopped  to  congratulate  Warfield, 
to  slap  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  call  him  "Good 
boy !"  as  if  he  had  done  it  all.  And  as  he  thought 
of  the  four  years  of  that  influence  at  Springfield 
his  position  as  the  chairman  who  had  directed  the 
campaign  would  give  him,  his  Inscrutable  smile 
expanded  into  one  of  great  content.  They  were 
happy  at  that  table,  all  of  them  looking  forward 


176  The  13  th   District 

to  days  of  power,  all  save  Garwood,  who  sat  gloomy 
and  silent,  drinking  more  than  he  ate,  and  drinking 
more  than  he  felt  he  ought.  Once  Warfield  no- 
ticed his  despondency,  and  whispered  to  him  in  his 
kind-hearted  way: 

"Don't  give  up,  old  man.  You'll  pull  through. 
And  if  you  don't,  I'll  see  that  you're  taken  care  of." 

The  sympathy  of  the  chairman's  tone,  more  than 
the  promise  he  made,  touched  Garwood,  but  down 
in  his  heart  he  felt  a  soreness.  It  was  hard  to  see 
them  all  successful  and  be  alone  doomed  to  defeat. 
A  place  in  the  state  administration,  on  some  board, 
even  on  the  board  of  railroad  and  warehouse 
commissioners,  would  hardly  satisfy  him  now.  He 
had  longed  to  go  to  Congress,  and  then,  the  vindi- 
cation he  looked  for  meant  more  than  all  the  rest. 
And  Emily — he  thought  of  her  and  could  have 
wept.  He  felt  himself  more  and  more  detached 
from  the  scene.  The  table,  the  mirrors,  the  lights 
of  the  cafe,  the  laughing  men,  the  rushing  waiters, 
the  shuffle  of  the  crowd  in  the  lobby  above,  the 
cries  in  the  street  outside,  the  toots  of  tin  horns, 
the  companies  of  crazy  men  marching  aimlessly 
around  and  around,  howling  the  names  of  candi- 
dates, all  sounded  as  remote  and  strange  as  if  he 
had  no  more  a  part  in  it. 

The  night  waned,  the  noise  changed,  but  did  not 
cease.  It  told  of  a  decrease  in  the  numbers  in  the 
lobby,  but  the  sounds  were  wilder.  Men  were  mak- 
ing a  night  of  it.  As  in  a  dream  Garwood  heard 
some  one  say: 

"There's  a  little  woman  down  in  Rock  Island 


On  the  Stump  177 

who'd  like  to  hear  from  me.  I  must  wire  my 
wife." 

And  Garwood  thought  of  a  telegram  he  might 
have  sent,  had  things  gone  differently.  He  thought 
of  a  girl  down  in  Grand  Prairie,  but  now — it  was 
all  so  changed! 

He  stole  away  and  sought  his  room.  He  went 
to  the  window,  pulled  back  the  curtain  and  looked 
down  into  Randolph  Street.  The  rain  had  ceased, 
but  still  the  big  campaign  banner  flapped  clumsily. 
The  chill  of  dawn  was  in  the  air,  a  cold  wind  blew 
in  from  the  lake.  Across  the  way  the  court  house 
and  city  hall  loomed  in  the  fog;  in  their  shadow 
he  saw  the  jaded  horses  at  the  cab  stand  drooping 
their  noses  to  their  crooked  knees ;  the  cable  began 
to  buzz  in  its  slot;  far  over  the  gloomy  roofs  the 
sky  was  tinged  with  the  pallor  of  coming  day — 
then  suddenly  a  long  shaft  of  brilliant  light  strik- 
ing across  the  sky  startled  him  with  a  nameless 
terror.  The  shaft  rose  slowly  until  it  pointed 
straight  upward,  then  three  times  it  swept  a  vast 
arc  down  to  the  eastern  horizon.  And  Garwood 
remembered — it  was  the  search-light  which  the 
'Courier  had  announced  would  signal  the  success  of 
Garwood's  party.  He  recalled  the  day  at  Lincoln. 
The  great  man  and  all  the  rest,  as  they  went  to  bed 
in  the  dawn  of  that  November  morning,  were  safe 
in  triumphant  victory,  while  he  alone — 

He  heard  the  heavy,  mature  voice  of  some  early 
newsboy : 

"Extry!  Toimes,  Tribune,  Her'ld,  an'  Courier  I 
'Lection!" 


XX 

WHEN  Garwood  awoke,  he  opened  his  eyes 
in  darkness.  The  room  was  cold.  He 
heard  the  harsh  Nottingham  curtains  stir- 
ring in  the  breeze  that  came  in  at  the  windows,  an 
autumnal  breeze  that  had  only  the  chill  of  autumn 
and  none  of  the  crispness  and  woodland  odors 
that  he  would  have  found  in  it  down  in  Grand 
Prairie.  Instead,  it  was  laden  with  the  soot 
and  dirt  of  the  city,  and  it  could  not  dissipate  the 
heavy  quality  taken  on  by  the  air  of  a  room 
that  had  long  been  slept  in.  He  could  hear 
the  jolting  of  trucks  on  the  cobble  stones,  the  trudge 
and  shuffle  of  thousands  of  feet  on  the  sidewalk, 
the  clank  of  the  cable  cars  scraping  around  the 
loop,  and,  punctuating  the  roar  of  the  city,  the 
cries  of  the  newsboys.  Garwood  slowly  regathered 
his  senses,  and  lay  in  the  moment  that  comes  before 
memory  brings  back  individuality  and  life,  trying 
to  fathom  a  deep  sense  of  something  wrong.  Then 
it  all  came  back  to  him  with  a  rush — the  campaign, 
the  election,  the  defeat.  He  rose  and  drew  his 
watch  from  his  waistcoat,  lying  on  the  floor.  It 
was  too  dark  to  see  its  face.  He  switched  on  the 
electricity — the  watch  had  stopped.  Then  he  went 
to  the  window  and  looked  down  into  the  street. 
The  lights  were  blazing,  and  thereby,  and  by  the 
throngs  hurrying  along  and  by  the  crowded  cars, 
178 


On  the  Stump  179 

he  knew  that  it  must  be  evening.  How  long  he 
had  slept  he  did  not  know.  He  could  not  remem- 
ber how  or  when  he  had  got  to  bed.  His  sleep  had 
hardly  refreshed  him.  It  had  been  too  deep,  too 
heavy;  he  was  feverish  and  his  muscles  were  sore. 
But  he  dressed  and  went  downstairs.  Somehow, 
instinctively,  without  giving  himself  any  reason  he 
stopped  at  the  headquarters  of  the  state  committee, 
but  the  rooms  were  dark,  deserted.  The  dead  odof 
of  stale  tobacco  smoke  hung  heavy  in  the  air. 

At  the  desk  in  the  rotunda  below,  the  clerk  gave 
him  his  mail,  with  some  pleasantry  about  the  great 
victory.  Garwood  stared  at  him  blankly,  with 
the  dumb  ache  at  his  heart,  with  some  resentment 
too,  that  the  clerk  should  not  have  known  what  a 
dash  of  bitterness  that  cup  of  victory  held  for  him. 
Mechanically  he  began  to  thumb  his  letters  over  as 
he  stood  there,  and  presently  laid  them  aside  that 
he  might  open  several  telegrams  he  found 
among  them,  with  that  sense  of  precedence  which 
telegrams  always  take  over  every  other  missive. 
With  the  first  one  his  eyes  widened  in  astonish- 
ment, and  then  suddenly  he  was  aware  that  War- 
field  was  shaking  his  hand  and  saying: 

"Well,  old  man,  congratulations.  It's  all  the 
sweeter  now,  isn't  it?  Why!  You  look  surprised, 
what's  the—" 

Garwood  looked  up  at  Warfield  and  said : 

"I  never  knew  till  just  this  minute,  when  I  read 
Rankin's  telegram.    I  just  got  up." 

"I  knew  you'd  pull  through  all  the  time,"  said 
Warfield,  with  as  much  truth  as  retroactive  proph- 


i8o  The  13  th  District 

ecy  can  ever  hold.  "I  thought  last  night  they  were 
holding  out  down  there,  and  that  when  the  whole 
vote  got  in,  you'd  be  found  to  have  won  out." 

Garwood's  soreness  had  gone,  and  he  took  a  long 
breath  as  if  to  draw  into  his  very  being  this  glad 
new  sense  of  victory.  In  an  instant  a  new  glory 
had  been  added  to  life.  He  took  Warfield  by  the 
arm. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  "let's  get  the  evening  papers, 
and  then  go  and  have  a  little  drink." 

They  strolled  toward  the  news  stand,  and  Gar- 
wood's eye  ran  down  the  pages  as  he  waited  for  his 
change. 

"Why,  I  carried  Bromley's  home  county!  I 
thought  I'd  lose  that  anyway." 

"Oh,  the  story  helped  out  over  there,"  said  War- 
field.  "Bromley  got  the  Sunday-school  vote,  and 
that  drove  the  rest  to  you." 

"My !  Wasn't  it  a  landslide  though !"  said  Gar- 
wood. "Keep  the  change,"  he  called  to  the  young 
man  behind  the  news  stand.  "Well,  I  was  glad  the 
party  won  even  when  I  thought  I  had  lost,"  he 
went  on.  "Look  here!"  Garwood  was  reading,  as 
he  walked,  the  paper  he  had  opened  wide.  "Logan 
County  gives  me  a  majority  of  eighteen  hundred; 
what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

They  were  at  the  bar  by  this  time. 

"What  will  it  be  ?"  said  Garwood,  still  devouring 
his  papers. 

"Oh,  a  httle  bourbon,"  said  Warfield. 

"Nonsense !"  said  Garwood,  crumpling  the  pa- 
pers under  his  arm.    "I  want  to  drink  Jim  Rankin's 


On  the  Stump  i8i 

health,  bless  his  old  heart !  He  gets  the  post-office, 
he  does !     Give  us  a  bottle  of  champagne !" 

"You  haven't  had  your  dinner  yet,  have  you?" 
Warfield  asked. 

"No,  nor  my  breakfast,  either,"  laughed  Gar- 
wood. But  then  Garwood  was  not  as  well  informed 
as  Warfield  as  to  the  relation  in  time  of  liquors  to 
dinner.     Warfield  had  been  longer  in  politics. 


XXI 

THREE  weeks  after  election  there  fell  a  night 
when  carriage  lamps  twinkled  among  the 
black  tree-trunks  in  the  yard  of  the  Harkness 
home.  The  drivers  of  these  vehicles  in  liveried 
coats  of  varied  shades  that  had  faded  through  all 
the  tones  of  green  and  blue  and  brown  and  violet, 
with  top  hats  that  marked  every  style  for  two 
decades,  lounged  on  their  high  seats  flinging  each 
other  coarse  jokes,  and  cracking  their  whips  softly 
at  the  few  brown  leaves  that  clung  so  tenaciously 
to  the  oaken  boughs  above  them. 

Within  the  house,  there  was  the  white  desolation 
of  canvas-covered  carpets,  and  the  furniture  had 
been  pushed  back  against  the  wall  in  anticipation  of 
a  later  crush  of  people  whose  bodies  would  supply 
a  heat  now  sadly  lacking  in  the  rooms.  Ethan 
Harkness  sat  in  his  library,  uncomfortable  in  his 
evening  clothes,  eying  dubiously  and  with  occas- 
ional dark  uprisings  of  rebellion,  the  white  gloves 
his  daughter  had  decreed  that  he  should  wear.  The 
caterer,  from  Chicago,  had  driven  him  to  bay, 
and  now  chased  his  shining  black  men  through 
the  old  man's  apartments  as  though  he  owned  them. 
In  the  dining-room  and  hall,  little  tables  were  being 
laid,  and  little  camp-chairs  tmfolded,  for  the  de- 
structive supper  of  salads  and  ices,  which,  having 
displaced  the  more  substantial  evening  meal  of  the 
182 


On  the  Stump  183 

establishment,  would  not  now  be  served  until  a  late 
hour,  when  its  inadequacy  would  be  more  notice- 
able. In  the  front  hall,  an  orchestra  had  assembled. 
Now  and  then  the  strings  of  the  instruments  would 
twang  in  tuning.  On  all  the  chill  atmosphere  hung 
the  funereal  odor  of  cut  flowers. 

Upstairs,  in  her  own  room,  Emily  stood  before 
a  long  pier  glass  arrayed  finally  in  the  white  bridal 
gown  on  which  the  feminine  interest  of  that  house 
and  town  had  centered  for  many  days.  Before  her 
a  dressmaker,  enacting  for  this  evening  the  role  of 
maid,  squatted  on  her  heels,  her  mouth  full  of  pins ; 
behind  her,  another  dressmaker  enacting  a  similar 
role  was  carefully,  almost  reverently,  unfolding  the 
long  tulle  veil ;  about  her  were  clustered  the  brides- 
maids, all  robed  in  their  new  gowns.  They  had 
been  chattering  and  laughing,  but  now,  in  the  su- 
preme moment,  a  silence  had  fallen — they  stood 
with  clasped  hands  and  held  their  breath.  In  the 
center  of  the  room,  Dade  Emerson  stood  in  her 
superior  office  of  maid  of  honor,  her  head  sidewise 
inclined,  her  eyes  half  closed  that  through  the  haze 
of  their  long  black  lashes  she  might  estimate  with 
more  artistic  vision  the  whole  bridal  effect.  Pres- 
ently she  nodded  to  the  dressmaker,  and  the  patient 
woman,  her  own  pinched  bosom  under  its  black 
alpaca  bodice  thrilling  strangely  with  the  emotions 
of  a  moment  that  had  been  denied  her,  lifted  the 
veil  on  her  extended  fingers,  and  proceeded  to  the 
coronation.  She  piled  the  white  cloud  upon  the 
brown  coils  of  Emily's  hair;  she  deftly  coaxed  it 
into  a  shimmering  cataract  down  the  silken  train 


i84  The  13th  District 

of  the  gown,  and  then  took  a  step  backward,  while 
all  the  women  there  raised  their  clasped  hands  to 
their  chins  in  an  ecstatic,  imisonant  sigh. 

Emily  turned  her  eyes,  brilliant  with  the  excite- 
ment of  this  night,  toward  Dade,  who  still  stood 
with  her  head  critically  poised.    Dade  nodded. 

"C'est  bien,"  she  said. 

The  spell  was  broken,  the  chattering  began  again, 
and  the  girls  swarmed  about  for  gloves  and  bou- 
quets, at  last  seating  themselves  impatiently  to  let 
the  maids  fasten  their  furred  opera  boots. 

Emily  still  stood  before  the  long  pier  glass,  look- 
ing at  her  bridal  reflection. 

"Are  you  all  fixed?"  said  Dade,  "with 

"  'Something  old  and  something  new, 

Something  borrowed  and  something  blue?'  " 

The  bridesmaids  looked  up  with  lips  apart,  await- 
ing the  answer  to  this  all-important  question. 

"My  handkerchief  is  old,"  said  Emily,  holding  in 
her  fingers  a  bit  of  point  lace  that  had  been  her 
mother's,  "and — let's  see — well,  I'm  pretty  much  all 
new  to-night."  She  glanced  down  at  her  gown. 
"Something  borrowed — I  have  nothing  borrowed." 
She  looked  up  soberly,  her  eyes  wide. 

"Something  blue  ?"  one  of  the  girls  asked,  though 
the  first  question  had  not  been  disposed  of. 

"Yes,  if  you'd  bean  me,  running  all  that  blue 
baby-ribbon  in  her  chemise,  you'd  think  so,"  said 
Dade. 

The  bride  blushed. 


On  the  Stump  185 

"But  something  borrowed,"  one  of  the  others 
insisted. 

"Yes,  something  borrowed,"  assented  Emily. 
"What  can  I  borrow,  I  wonder?"  She  looked 
about  helplessly. 

"Oh  say,  girls !"  one  of  the  bridesmaids  ex- 
claimed, "she  must  have  a  coin  in  her  slipper!" 
And  the  whole  bevy  chorused  its  happy  acquies- 
cence. Emily,  with  the  sudden  air  of  a  queen, 
unaccustomed  to  waiting  on  herself,  commanded 
Dade: 

"Look  in  that  box  on  my  dressing-table." 

Dade  picked  her  way  through  the  disorder  of  the 
room  to  the  little  dressing-table,  with  its  candles 
lighted,  adding  their  heat  to  the  room.  She  looked, 
and  found  nothing.  Then  she  flew  from  the  room, 
crossed  the  hall,  and  returning,  gave  Emily  a  silver 
dime. 

"I'll  lend  it  to  you,"  she  said,  "it'll  be  something 
borrowed,  too." 

It  was  all  arranged.  The  bride  glanced  again 
in  her  mirror,  turned  about,  inspected  her  train, 
preened  herself  like  some  white  bird,  ready  for  final 
flight.  The  old  maid  scanned  the  bride's  face  criti- 
cally.    It  was  radiant,  but — 

"I'm  red  as  a  beet !"  Emily  pouted. 

"It's  hot  as  pepper  in  here  anyway,"  one  of  the 
bridesmaids  panted. 

The  old  maid  took  a  powder  puff  and  touched 
the  bride's  face,  touched  the  cheeks,  and  at  last  the 
forehead,  where  tiny  drops  of  perspiration  sparkled. 

"There  now,"  she  said,  with  her  last  dab. 


i86  The  I  3  th   District 

Emily  turned  to  her  with  a  final  glance  of  ques- 
tioning. The  old  dressmaker's  eye  lighted  at  the 
sight  of  the  young  girl  in  her  bridal  dress.  She 
took  a  step  toward  her,  her  thin,  withered  lips 
trembling.  "May  I — kiss  you?"  she  asked,  tim- 
idly. 

And  then,  carefully,  reverently,  as  she  had 
crowned  her  with  the  veil,  she  approached,  and 
kissed  her.  The  eyes  of  the  bridesmaids,  in  the 
emotion  that  weddings  excite  in  girls,  became 
moist  with  tears. 

There  were,  of  course,  further  feminine  delays, 
but  at  last,  gathering  their  rustling  skirts  about 
their  ankles,  the  bride  and  her  retinue  made  a 
dazzling  white  procession  down  the  staircase. 

Her  father  awaited  her.  The  caterer  and  his 
black  men,  the  cook  and  old  Jasper,  the  men  of  the 
orchestra,  all  had  gathered  in  the  parlor  to  see  her. 
Emily  paused  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  blocking  the 
procession  that  was  but  half  descended.  She 
looked  at  her  father  with  smiling  eyes.  The  old 
man  glanced  at  her  a  moment,  and  then  solemnly 
drew  near.  When  he  had  taken  her  fresh  and 
radiant  face  between  the  kands  that  were  still  un- 
gloved, he  kissed  her,  and  then  turned  suddenly  and 
went  back  to  his  library  scrubbing  his  face  with 
his  handkerchief.  So  the  sadness  that  weddings 
inspire,  possibly  because  the  estate  of  matrimony  is 
entered  into  by  all  lightly  and  with  merry  confi- 
dence in  a  future  that  shall  be  miraculously  exempt 
from  the  griefs  and  woes  of  life,  fell  upon  the  little 
company. 


On  the  Stump  187 

Meanwhile  all  the  closed  carriages  the  livery- 
stables  of  Grand  Prairie  could  muster  were  rolling 
along  Sangamon  Avenue,  stretching  frostily  white 
under  a  November  moon.  Their  rendezvous  was 
St.  James  Church,  over  the  stony  tower  of  which 
some  native  ivy  had  kindly  grown  to  give  the 
English  effect  so  much  desired.  An  awning  was 
stretched  from  the  curb  to  the  Gothic  doorway, 
and  about  it  were  already  gathered  ragged 
children  and  truant  servant  girls,  willing  to  shiver 
in  the  night  air  for  a  mere  glimpse  of  the 
bride,  and  perhaps  of  the  groom,  who,  so  short  a 
time  before  acclaimed  as  the  popular  champion  of 
equal  rights,  was  now  to  be  identified  with  that 
fashionable  exclusiveness  which  is  separated  by 
satin  ribbons  and  striped  awnings  from  the  mass 
of  mankind.  Inside,  the  church  lights  were  blaz- 
ing; at  the  door,  two  policemen,  in  new  white  cot- 
ton gloves,  stood  guard. 

Garwood,  dressed  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
in  evening  clothes,  was  restlessly  pacing  the  musty 
sacristy  of  the  church.  With  him  were  Dr.  Aber- 
crombie,  the  rector  of  the  parish,  in  his  white  sur- 
plice and  stole,  and  Colonel  Warfield,  his  best  man. 
Garwood  had  found  difficulty  in  selecting  a  man 
for  this  affair.  When,  in  discussing  the  plans  for 
the  wedding,  he  had  learned  from  Emily  that  it 
devolved  upon  him  to  choose  not  only  a  best  man 
but  groomsmen  and  ushers,  he  had  found,  in  cast- 
ing over  his  acquaintances,  that  he  had  none  who 
were  intimate  enough  and  at  the  same  time  fash- 
ionable enough  to  fill  these  social  offices. 


i88  The  I  3  th   District 

But  he  had  thought  of  Colonel  Warfield,  and  as 
he  considered  how  peculiarly  fitting  it  was  that  a 
man  of  Colonel  Warfield's  social  and  political  posi- 
tion in  the  state  should  attend  him  at  a  wedding 
which  would  attract  the  attention  his  was  sure  to 
attract,  he  assumed  an  intimacy  that  did  not  exist, 
and  boldly  invited  the  colonel  to  serve  him  in  this 
delicate  capacity.  He  could  not,  for  public  reasons, 
have  made  a  better  selection.  The  old  bachelor, 
with  as  many  social  as  political  campaigns  to  his 
credit,  was  too  polite  to  decline,  and  so  came  down 
to  Grand  Prairie,  giving,  by  his  position,  a  new  im- 
portance to  Garwood  in  the  eyes  of  the  politicians 
of  Illinois,  and  by  his  white  hair  and  military  bear- 
ing, a  distinction  to  the  wedding  that  made  it  com- 
plete. 

As  they  paced  the  floor  of  the  sacristy  on  this  eve- 
ning, awaiting  the  signal  of  the  bridal  party's 
coming,  the  colonel  chatted  at  his  ease  with  the 
rector,  while  Garwood  paused  now  and  then  to 
look  through  the  peep  hole  that  long  ago  had  been 
whittled  in  the  panel  of  the  door  that  opened  into 
the  church.  He  could  see,  as  in  a  haze,  the  flowers 
and  faces  and  fluttering  fans  of  society.  He  could 
detect,  here  and  there,  one  of  the  numerous  poli- 
ticians he  had  invited  in  order  to  make  his  list  of 
guests  equal  to  the  one  Emily  had  written  out.  Far 
down  at  the  front  he  could  see  Jim  Rankin,  scorn- 
ing evening  dress,  with  his  little  wife  beside  him  in 
a  hat  she  had  retrimmed  that  very  evening,  and 
finally,  within  the  space  marked  by  the  bows  of 
white  ribbon  for  the  family,  he  saw  his  mother,  in 


On  the   Stump  189 

the  new  black  silk  gown  he  had  bought  for  her 
when  he  found  his  credit  immeasurably  strength- 
ened by  his  success  in  politics  and  love.  She  was 
fanning  herself  complacently,  yet  through  big 
spectacles  that  fortunately  lent  benignity  to  an 
otherwise  disapproving  gaze,  looking  with  an  eye 
he  knew  was  hostile  at  the  trappings  of  this  high 
church.  And  yet  her  face  was  not  without  its  trace 
of  pride  that  she  was  the  mother  of  a  son  who  could 
lead  out  of  this  stronghold  of  fashion  and  exclu- 
siveness  one  of  its  reigning  peeresses. 

The  organist  had  been  improvising,  while  the 
people  gathered.  Now  that  they  were  all  there 
and  a  hush  disturbed  only  by  the  rustle  of  fans 
had  fallen  upon  the  sanctuary,  his  improvisations 
were  subjected  to  a  keener  criticism,  and  his  in- 
spiration failed  him,  so  that  his  work  lagged  and 
degenerated  into  minor  chords.  The  hour  for  the 
wedding  had  passed,  and  those  who  had  been  re- 
viving the  gossip  that  Emily  had  made  Garwood's 
election  a  condition  precedent  to  her  marrying  him, 
began  to  discuss  with  keen  excitement  the  possi- 
bility of  his  or  her  failing  at  the  last  minute. 

The  gossip  had  entered  grooves  that  led  to  cer- 
tain passages  in  Garwood's  early  life,  when  some 
electrical  contrivance  buzzed.  The  music  ceased,  a 
hush  fell  within  the  church.  The  priest  and  Col- 
onel Warfield  straightened  up  and  took  their  places 
as  if  for  a  procession.  Garwood  saw  the  ushers, 
chosen  by  Emily  from  the  number  of  young  men 
who  once  had  so  ineffectually  called  upon  her,  pace 
slowly  down  the  aisles,  unrolling  white  satin  rib- 


IQO  The  13  th   District 

bons  along  the  backs  of  the  pews.  Then  the  rector 
entered  the  church,  and  Garwood  found  himself 
with  Colonel  Warfield  by  his  side,  standing  before 
that  flowered  and  fanning  multitude. 

The  organ  had  begun  the  strains  of  the  bridal 
chorus  from  Lohengrin,  women  were  twisting 
their  heads,  and  far  down  the  aisle  he  saw  Dade 
with  her  huge  bouquet  of  chrysanthemums  moving 
with  stately,  measured  tread  toward  the  altar.  And 
behind  her,  he  saw  Mr.  Harkness,  looking  older 
than  he  had  ever  known  him,  and  on  his  arm,  her 
eyes  downcast  behind  her  veil,  was  Emily,  kicking 
her  silken  white  bridal  gown  with  her  little  satin- 
slippered  toes.  When  she  saw  him  a  light  that 
made  his  heart  leap  came  into  her  eyes,  and  he  be- 
came suddenly,  dramatically  bold,  so  that  he  left 
the  colonel  and  strode  forward  to  meet  her.  He  led 
her  to  the  altar,  and  the  priest  began  his  solemn 
words.  Garwood  stood  there,  conscious  of  the 
beautiful  woman  beside  him,  her  hand  in  his,  con- 
scious of  Warfield  picking  the  ring  with  experi- 
enced fingers  from  the  palm  of  his  gloved  hand, 
conscious  of  Dade  near  by  holding  Emily's  bou- 
quet, conscious  of  the  priest's  flowing  surplice  be- 
fore him,  of  the  flowers  and  palms  around  him,  of 
the  crowd  behind  fanning  the  perfume  of  toilets 
into  the  heated  air. 

Then  he  was  kneeling  stiffly  upon  a  satin  pillow, 
the  soles  of  his  new  shoes  showing  to  the  congre- 
gation, the  organ  was  softly  playing,  giving 
a  theatrical  effect  to  the  impressively  modu- 
lated words  of  the  clergyman,  and  then  they  were 


On  the  Stump  igi 

on  their  feet  again ;  Dade  had  parted  Emily's  veil, 
and  he  saw  her  looking  up  at  him,  her  pale  face 
aglow,  in  her  deep  eyes  a  light  that  showed  the 
influence  of  sacerdotal  rite.  Then  as  it  was  borne 
upon  his  soul  that  she  was  his,  wholly  his  at  last, 
with  the  male's  joy  of  absolute  possession,  he  set 
his  lips  upon  hers  and  kissed  her  before  them  all. 

The  organ  swelled  into  the  wedding  march  that 
has  become  a  tradition,  and  he  was  striding  down 
the  aisle  with  Emily  on  his  arm.  He  saw  his 
mother's  tears,  he  saw  Rankin,  the  big  fellow  fur- 
tively knuckling  his  eyes,  and  then  winking  drolly 
at  him,  he  saw  Mr.  Harkness,  who,  he  suddenly 
remembered,  was  now  his  father-in-law,  pale  and 
stern.  And  so  they  left  the  church  and  passed  out 
under  the  canopy  to  the  waiting  carriage. 

Garwood,  like  a  king  come  from  his  crowning, 
felt  a  kindness  for  all  the  world,  even  for  the  poor 
folk  gathered  on  the  sidewalk  striving  for  a  glimpse 
of  the  bride's  gown.  He  felt  his  heart  leap  to- 
ward them,  so  that  like  a  king,  he  longed  to  fling  a 
golden  largess  to  them. 

The  carriage  door  slammed.  Josh  Bowers,  from 
the  livery-stable  that  had  provided  the  carriages, 
shouted  some  big  order  to  the  driver,  and  they 
whirled  away.  Once  more  he  saw  the  gleam  in 
Emily's  eyes,  liquid  in  the  cold  light  that  found  its 
way  from  the  moonlit  night  into  the  carriage, 
and,  regardless  of  her  dress,  though  he  thought  of 
it,  he  crushed  her  in  his  arms,  and  said: 

"At  last— my  wife!" 


BOOK  II 

BY  THE  PEOPLE 


THE  old  court  house  in  Grand  Prairie,  its 
mighty  blocks  of  sandstone  evenly  browned 
by  the  justice  and  equity  of  the  rain  and 
wind,  lifted  its  Doric  columns  in  the  sunshine  of  a 
June  morning.  Under  the  cornice  of  its  pediment 
the  sparrows  were  scuffling,  and  in  the  elms  that 
grew  about,  dipping  their  boughs  in  a  stately  way 
to  the  breeze,  blue  jays  were  chattering,  while  the 
tame  squirrels,  the  legal  pets  of  the  county  super- 
visors, gamboled  impudently  on  the  grass  and  on 
the  graveled  walks.  Around  the  four  sides  of 
the  square  the  raw  brick  buildings  stood  bak- 
ing in  the  sun,  and  at  the  long  hitching  racks, 
gnawed  during  years  of  cribbing,  horses  were 
stamping  and  switching  at  the  flies.  On  any 
other  Monday  morning  the  racks  would  have 
been  empty,  but  this  day  the  court  house's 
weather-beaten  doors,  fluttering  with  old  notices  of 
sheriff's  sales,  were  swung  wide,  and  through  them 
sauntered  lawyers  and  jurymen  and  those  who 
could  quit  the  pleasant  benches  in  the  yard  outside 
for  the  mild  excitement  of  the  June  term  of  the 
Circuit  Court  that  day  to  be  begun  and  holden. 

As  Jerome  B.  Garwood,  walking  with  the  easy 

and  dignified  tread  that  befits  a  congressman,  came 

down  Sangamon  Avenue  and  saw  once  more  the 

familiar  square,  he  experienced  a  revulsion  of  senti- 

195 


196  The  13  th  District 

ment,  a  sense  almost  of  despair,  to  think  that  he 
was  back  again  in  the  sleepy  little  prairie  town. 
All  the  way  from  Washington  he  had  looked  for- 
ward to  being  at  home  again.  He  had  thought  how 
good  it  would  be  to  see  Emily  once  more,  and  the 
little  six  months  old  baby  whose  inspired  messages 
of  love  had  filled  all  her  letters  to  him;  he  had 
thought  he  would  enjoy  the  quiet  of  his  old  law 
office,  and  the  shade  and  repose  of  the  town,  which, 
as  visitbrs  in  Grand  Prairie  were  told  when  they 
happened  down  in  the  winter  or  spring  or  fall  or 
late  summer,  was  always  at  its  best  in  June.  Some- 
thing of  this  anticipation  had  been  realized  Sat- 
urday night  when  he  had  reached  home  and  hugged 
the  boy  in  his  arms  again,  but  the  quiet  of  one 
Sunday,  and,  more  especially,  the  dolor  of  one 
old-fashioned  Sunday  evening  had  dispelled  all  his 
pleasure,  and  this  morning,  when  he  turned  into  the 
ugly  square,  the  whole  of  what  life  in  Grand 
Prairie  really  was,  seemed  to  rise  before  him  and 
roll  over  him  in  a  great  wave  of  discontent. 

He  thought  of  the  long,  wide  sweep  of  Penn- 
sylvania Avenue,  with  the  mighty  dome  of  the 
Capitol  at  the  end,  he  recalled  the  excitement  and 
distinction  of  a  morning  session  of  the  House  when 
the  members  were  all  coming  in,  he  could 
still  feel  in  his  ears  the  roar  and  tumult 
of  the  closing  scenes  of  the  long  session,  and  he 
gave  way  to  that  childish  method  of  self-torture  in 
which  he  would  continually  remind  himself  of 
what  he  had  been  doing  two  weeks  ago  that 
day,  or  a  week  ago  that  day,  or  exen  at  that  hour 


In  Convention  Assembled      197 

four  days  ago.  Before  he  could  return  to 
that  Hfe,  a  long  hot  summer  in  Grand  Prairie 
was  to  be  endured,  but  more  than  that,  the 
agony  of  a  campaign  in  the  fall.  The  fear  and 
apprehension  this  caused  him,  were  heightened  by 
the  state  of  affairs  in  the  district ;  for  the  first  thing 
he  had  learned  on  reaching  home  was  that  his 
fences  were  in  bad  shape,  and  Jim  Rankin,  when. 
Garwood  had  escaped  the  baby's  fretful  cries  and 
gone  forth  to  find  his  old  manager,  had  confirmed 
the  sad  news.  And  as  if  this  were  not  enough  in 
itself,  Rankin  had  allowed  himself  to  be  beaten  for 
chairman  of  the  county  committee,  and  had  lost 
control  of  the  local  organization !  The  county  con- 
vention had  been  held^  and  a  delegation  to  the  con- 
gressional convention  selected  which  not  only  was 
not  instructed  for  him,  but  was  probably  hostile. 
He  cursed  Rankin  for  that.  The  thought  of  defeat 
was  insupportable  to  him — to  leave  Washington 
now  and  come  back  to  Grand  Prairie  to  stay!  The 
idea  revolted  him.  He  found  some  comfort  in 
remembering  that  he  still  had  the  short  session 
before  him,  though  that  would  not  begin  until 
December,  six  months  ofif.  If  worst  came  to  worst, 
he  might  induce  the  president  to  take  care  of  him 
in  some  appointive  office.  And  then  he  laughed  at 
himself  and  took  a  long,  deep  breath  of  the  pure 
ozone  from  his  native  prairies,  contaminated  some- 
what to  be  sure  in  passing  over  the  dirty  square, 
but  still  active  enough  to  fill  him  with  determination 
to  win  in  the  coming  convention,  and  to  be  re- 
elected.    He  allowed  himself  one  more    sigh    in 


igS  The  i3th  District 

thinking  how  pleasant  to  be  a  congressman  if  it 
were  not  for  the  agony  of  the  swiftly  recurring 
biennial  election,  and  then  straightened  up,  strode 
across  the  square,  and  took  the  old  familiar  walk 
to  the  court  house  door. 

He  was  really  a  fine  looking  man,  was  Garwood, 
as  he  threw  his  shoulders  back,  and  gave  his  head 
that  old  determined  toss,  finer  looking  then  as  a 
congressman  than  he  had  been  as  a  mere  candidate 
for  Congress  a  year  and  a  half  before.  Perhaps 
it  was  because  he  had  grown  stouter,  perhaps  it 
was  the  finer  manner  of  a  man  of  the  world  he  had 
learned  in  Washington,  perhaps  it  was  his  well- 
groomed  appearance,  for  his  long  black  coat  had  a 
gloss  of  richness  rather  than  the  shine  of  poverty, 
his  trousers  were  creased  and  fitted  neatly  over  his 
low  shoes,  his  white  waistcoat  curved  gracefully 
over  the  paunch  of  prosperousness,  his  shirt,  as  a 
student  of  clothes  might  have  noticed,  was  made 
with  the  collar  and  cuffs  attached — ^the  easy  way 
to  be  marked  for  a  gentleman — while  the  wide 
Panama  hat  he  wore  had  the  distinguishing  effect 
of  having  been  bought  somewhere  else.  But  more 
than  all,  it  was  the  atmosphere  of  official  position 
which  enveloped  him — and  of  which  he  was  thor- 
oughly conscious — that  spread  a  spell  over  the  ob- 
server. No  one  would  ever  call  him  Jerry  now,  or 
ever  again,  unless,  perhaps,  in  the  heat  of  his  cam- 
paign for  reelection.  Of  his  face,  it  may  be  said 
that  it  was  fuller  and  redder;  the  mouth,  clean 
shaven,  had   taken  on  new   lines,   but  they  were 


In  Convention  Assembled      199 

hardly  as  pleasing  as  the  old  ones  had  been  in  the 
days  before. 

And  so  he  made  his  dignified  progress  up  to  the 
court  house.  He  had  intended,  on  coming  down, 
to  go  to  his  office  where  young  Enright,  lately  ad- 
mitted, was  holding  forth  with  a  bright  new  sign 
under  Garwood's  old  one,  but  it  occurred  to  him 
that  it  would  benefit  him  to  reassert  his  relation  to 
the  bar  of  Polk  County  by  appearing  in  court  on 
term  day,  and  sitting  or  standing  about.  Perhaps 
Judge  Bickerstafif  would  invite  him  to  sit  beside 
him  on  the  bench.  He  remembered  that  that  was 
what  the  judge  used  to  do  whenever  General  Ban- 
croft came  home  from  Washington. 

He  had  been  bowing  to  acquaintances  all  the  way 
down  town  with  his  old  amiable  smile,  seeking 
to  disarm  it  of  a  new  quality  of  reservation  that 
had  lately  entered  into  it,  but  now,  in  the  cool  dark 
tunnels  they  called  corridors,  he  met  men  face  to 
face,  and  all  the  way  along,  and  even  up  the  steep 
and  winding  stairs  that  curved  after  a  colonial  pat- 
tern to  the  upper  story,  he  must  pause  to  take  their 
hands,  and  carefully,  and  distinctly,  according  to 
the  training  he  had  given  his  memory  in  this 
respect,  call  them  by  name;  more  often  than  not 
by  their  given  names.  When  he  left  them,  they 
felt  a  glow  of  pleasure,  though  they  were  all  the 
while  conscious  that  something  was  lacking  in  this 
apparent  heartiness. 

The  court  room  itself  was  full.  In  the  benches 
outside  the  bar  sat  the  jurymen  and  the  loafers 
iWho  hoped  to  be  jurymen,  or,  at  least,  talesmen. 


200  The  13  th  District 

Within  the  bar,  the  lawyers  were  tilting  back  their 
chairs,  chewing  their  cigars,  keeping  near  the  huge 
brown  spittoons.  On  the  bench,  the  judge,  his 
spectacles  on,  sat  with  the  docket  open  before  him. 
The  bailiff,  whom  Garwood  in  imitation  of  the 
courtly  way  old  General  Bancroft  had  brought  with 
him  from  Virginia,  by  way  of  Shawneetown,  al- 
ways longed  to  address  as  "Mr.  Tipstaff,"  but  never 
dared  do  so,  was  just  finishing  crying  his  third 
"Oh,  yes!"  as  he  pronounced  the  proclamatory 
*'Oyez !  Oyez !  Oyez !"  The  lawyers  noticed  Gar- 
wood, and  as  the  calling  of  the  docket  proceeded, 
got  up  to  shake  his  hand,  and  to  ask  him  about 
Washington  and  the  great  affairs  of  state,  all  of 
them  displaying  that  professional  relation  to  politics 
which  lawyers  cultivate  and  affect.  Though  most 
of  them,  be  it  said,  seemed  to  confuse  the  good  of 
their  party  with  the  good  of  the  country.  Those 
who  belonged  to  the  party  then  out  of  power,  were 
treated  as  if  they  were  aliens,  with  no  possible 
right  to  an  interest  in  what  the  people's  servants 
were  then  doing  at  the  nation's  capital. 

Garwood  was  surprised,  but  vastly  pleased,  when 
the  judge  called  the  title  of  a  cause  which  in  Gar- 
wood's ears  had  a  familiar  sound.  And  as  he 
was  adjusting  this  haunting  recollection,  the  judge, 
looking  over  his  glasses  and  keeping  a  forefinger 
on  the  docket,  said: 

"I  believe  you  represent  the  plaintiff  in  that  case, 
Mr.  Garwood?" 

Garwood  arose,  smiling. 


In  Convention  Assembled      201 

"I  was  about  to  ask  your  Honor  to  pass  that  case 
temporarily,  if  the  Court  please." 

"It  will  go  to  the  heel  of  the  docket  then,"  said 
the  court. 

After  that  Garwood  went  up  to  the  bench,  and, 
stooping  respectfully  as  he  passed  between  it  and 
the  lawyers  in  front  of  it,  he  went  around  and  shook 
the  judge's  hand.  And  then  after  they  had  whis- 
pered about  each  other's  health  a  moment,  the 
judge  invited  Garwood  to  sit  beside  him,  which  he 
did.  He  sat  there  while  the  docket  was  called, 
imagining  how  it  would  feel  to  be  a  judge,  in  order 
to  compare  the  feeling  with  the  feeling  one  has 
as  a  congressman.  He  half  wished  he  were  a 
judge  instead  of  a  congressman.  He  was  certain 
he  would  rather  be  a  federal  judge  than  a  congress- 
man— that  place  was  for  life,  with  no  elections  to 
harass  the  incumbent.  He  began  to  speculate  on 
the  length  of  time  the  district  judge  for  the  South- 
ern District  of  Illinois  would  probably  Hve.  He 
might  get  that  place  if  he  were  reelected  and  the 
judge  should  die. 

"How  is  Judge  Pickney's  health  now  ?"  he  asked 
of  Judge  BickerstafiP. 

"Not  well,  I  hear,"  whispered  the  court,  "he's 
going  away  for  the  summer." 

Only  successful  men  could  get  that  place — he 
must  by  all  means  be  reelected.  As  he  sat  there, 
idly  speculating,  all  the  happiness  he  had  hoped  to 
find  as  congressman  clouded  by  the  constant  dread 
of  defeat,  he  suddenly  saw,  at  the  rear  of  the  court 
room,  the  red  face  of  Jim  Rankin.    When  Rankin 


202  The  13  th   District 

caught  the  congressman's  eye,  he  motioned  with  his 
curly  head.  Garwood  thanked  the  judge,  ex- 
cused himself,  came  down  from  the  bench,  carefully 
bowed  to  those  members  of  the  bar  he  could  catch 
in  the  sweep  of  his  eye,  and  went  out  to  join 
Rankin. 


II 


RANKIN  was  plainly  glad  to  see  Garwood,  and 
as  they  walked  along  looked  at  him  with  a 
sidelong    glance    of    pride,    as    with    some 
artistic  sense  of  pleasure  in  his  handiwork. 

"It's  good  to  have  you  back  again,"  said  the  big 
Rankin,  "let's  go  into  Chris's  an'  have  a  little  drink 
just  for  the  sake  of  the  good  old  times." 

Garwood,  who  found  the  new  times  so  much 
better  than  the  old  times,  had  not  yielded  much  to 
the  warmth  of  Rankin's  good  humor.  He  was 
displeased  and  sore.  Rankin  felt  this,  but  he  had 
been  used  to  his  moods  of  old,  and  he  loved  Gar- 
wood with  such  a  frank,  lasting  affection,  and  his 
own  heart  was  so  whole,  that  he  refused  to  think 
it  anything  but  a  mood  that  would  pass.  Garwood, 
though,  consented  to  drink  readily  enough.  Indeed 
he  had  been  feeling  ever  since  he  came  down  that 
a  drink  would  put  him  in  better  sorts.  They  went 
into  Chris's  place,  and  found  it  cool  and  pleasant 
after  the  hot  sidewalk  outside,  though  Garwood, 
mentally  comparing  it  with  Chamberlain's,  felt 
again  his  twinge  of  homesickness  for  Washington. 
The  bar  at  Chamberlain's,  he  remembered,  did  not 
smell  of  stale  beer  as  this  one  did.  Steisfloss  him- 
self was  behind  the  long  counter,  and  wiped  his 
hands  on  his  white  apron  before  extending  one  of 
them  to  Garwood  in  welcome  home. 
203 


204  The  I  3  th  District 

"What's  it  going  to  be,  gentlemen?"  he  asked. 

"I'll  have  a  beer,"  said  Rankin  readily,  mopping 
his  hot  brow  with  his  big  palm. 

Garwood  hesitated,  as  though  to  give  the  ques- 
tion some  thought.  Steisfloss  and  Rankin  both 
looked  at  him  while  he  was  reaching  his  decision. 
At  last  he  said,  as  though  he  were  conferring  a 
favor : 

"I  believe  you  may  make  me  a  manhattan  cock- 
tail, Chris." 

Steisfloss  paused,  but  only  for  an  instant,  and 
then  he  said  promptly: 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Garwood,  but  I'm  out  o'  man- 
hattan." 

Garwood  glanced  at  him  and  smiled  faintly. 
Steisfloss  detected  the  smile,  and  Garwood  instantly 
feared  he  had  lost,  not  only  a  vote,  but  the  influence 
of  a  saloon.     Rankin  sprang  to  the  rescue  of  both. 

"Aw,  take  a  beer,"  he  said. 

"No,"  said  Garwood,  "I  haven't  been  very  well 
lately — I  reckon  you  can  give  me  some  bourbon." 

"That  Washington  living's  too  high  fer  you,  eh?" 
said  Rankin  genially.  But  he  saw  that  Garwood 
again  was  displeased  and  so  hastened  to  mollify 
him,  by  adding: 

"Oh  well,  you'll  be  all  right.  It's  this  hot  weather. 
You'll  be  all  right  when  you're  rested  out.  You 
ought  to  go  av/ay  somewhere  and  take  a  vacation." 

"Yes,"  said  Garwood,  quickly  assenting  to  the 
proposition,  "Senator  Ames  wanted  me  to  go  with 
him  to  Rye  Beach  later  on — reckon  I'll  have  to." 

They  drank  and  left.     They  found  Garwood's 


In  Convention  Assembled      205 

old  offices  deserted,  for  Enright  had  dutifully  gone 
over  to  the  court  house  in  order  to  be  seen  among 
the  other  lawyers  who  really  had  business  there, 
little  enough  though  it  was.  And  when  they  had 
tossed  up  the  windows  to  let  some  air  into  the 
musty  rooms,  and  Rankin  had  leaned  dangerously 
out  on  the  dusty  window-ledge  to  lower  the  ragged 
awnings,  they  seated  themselves  as  of  old,  in  the 
worn  chairs. 

"Well  now,"  Garwood  said,  in  tones  that  were 
almost  a  command,  "tell  me  about  it.  How  in  hell 
did  it  ever  happen?" 

Rankin  shifted  uneasily.  He  grew  a  shade  red- 
der. 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Jer — "  he  was  about 
to  say  "Jerry,"  but  he  found  it  hard  now  to  call 
his  congressman  "Jerry,"  so  he  avoided  names;  "to 
tell  you  the  truth,"  he  repeated,  "I  never  dreamed  it 
of  'em.  I  never  dreamed  'at  there  was  an'thing  in 
the  talk  ag'inst  you.  I  couldn't  believe  'at  any  one 
could  have  it  in  fer  you!"  He  looked  up  at  Gar- 
wood with  a  trust  and  affection  that  were  moving, 
though  they  did  not  move  Garwood,  who  sat  with 
his  face  averted,  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"But,  you  see,"  Rankin  went  on,  "there  was  that 
row  out  at  Ball's  Corners,  ol'  man  Barker  was  sore 
'bout  the  post-office — " 

"I  never  promised  it  to  him!"  Garwood  inter- 
rupted. 

"Well,  he  thought  you  did,  leastways  he  said 
you  did;  an'  then  there  was  some  farmers  out  in 


2o6  The  13th   District 

Briggs  to'nship  who  claimed  the  seed  you  sent  'em 
wouldn't  grow. — " 

Garwood  looked  at  Rankin  in  stupefaction. 

"An'  then,"  Rankin  went  on,  "they  said  you 
didn't  answer  the'r  letters  'bout  it  when  they  wrote 
an'  told  you." 

"Well,  Crawford  did,  didn't  he?"  Garwood  said. 
Crawford  was  his  private  secretary. 

"Yes,"  answered  Rankin,  "but  they  said  you 
didn't  answer  the'r  letters  personally.  Does  Craw- 
ford sign  your  name,  or  stamp  it  onto  the  letters?" 

"The  damn  fools !"  Garwood  could  only  exclaim, 
helplessly. 

"Well,  you  know  ol'  General  Bancroft's  strong 
holt  al'ays  was  'at  he  answered  his  constits'  letters 
right  away,  an'  in  his  own  hand  write.  An' — oh, 
ther'  'as  a  lot  o'  little  things  like  that." 

"Was  there  any  feeling  over  my  vote  on  the 
armor-plate  bill?"  asked  the  congressman. 

"Oh,  some,  that  is,  some  talk  about  your  sidin' 
in  'ith  the  corporations,  but  not  a  great  deal,  mostly 
just  such  little  feelin's  as  a  man  al'ays  encounters 
after  he's  been  in  office  a  little  while.  I  didn't 
think  it  'uld  amount  to  much,  but — " 

"But  it  did,"  said  Garwood,  setting  his  lips. 

"Yes,  it  did,"  acquiesced  Rankin.  "But  Pusey 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all." 

"Pusey?" 

"Yes,  Pusey.  The  truth  is  I  underrated  Pusey 's 
stren'th — that's  the  whole  of  it." 

They  were  silent  a  minute,  and  then  Garwood 
said: 


In  Convention  Assembled      207 

"Well?" 

"Well,"  Rankin  went  on,  "you  see  Pusey's  been 
comin'  up  in  the  world  this  last  year.  After  he  got 
holt  o'  the  Citizen,  which  no  one  thought  he  ever 
could  do,  he  braced  up  consider'ble  an'  started  in 
fer  to  edit  a  clean  sheet — a  reg'lar  home  an'  fire- 
side companion.  You  wouldn't  know  'im  now — ■ 
new  clothes,  plug  hat  Sundays,  an'  he  gets  shaved." 

"Shaved?" 

"Yep,  has  a  cup  at  the  barber's  with  a  quill  pen 
painted  onto  it." 

They  marveled  sufficiently,  and  Rankin  resumed: 

"He's  al'ays  had  it  in  fer  me  you  know,  an'  he's 
a  pretty  slick  one,  he  is,  if  I  must  say  so.  He  went 
to  work  quiet  like,  to  beat  me  out — " 

"And  he  did  it !" 

"Yes,  sir,  he  done  it." 

Rankin  sunk  his  hands  in  his  trousers'  pockets 
and  slid  his  heels  across  the  floor  until  his  legs 
were  stretched  out  before  him.  Then  he  stared 
abstractedly,  thinking  of  his  defeat. 

"Well — I'll  get  through  with  it.  I  read  in  the 
papers  'at  Congress  'uld  adjourn  the  last  o'  May. 
I  thought  we'd  ought  to  have  an  early  convention. 
I  wanted  to  fix  it  all  up  and  have  an  instructed 
delegation  waitin'  fer  you  on  your  return,  so  I 
calls  a  meetin'  o'  the  county  committee,  settin'  it  on 
Saturday  the  twenty-seventh.  I  felt  pretty  good 
over  it,  too,  for  I  thought  I'd  took  Pusey  by  sur- 
prise. He  didn't  say  nothin'  in  the  paper,  but  he 
ain't  the  feller  to  be  caught  nappin' — no  sir,  he 
ain't.    I  didn't  give  him  credit  fer  it." 


2o8  The  I  3  th   District 

"Well,  what  did  he  do?" 

"Do?  Why,  he  didn't  do  a  thing  but — well,  I'll 
tell  it  to  you  in  its  order.  Everything-  seemed  all 
right.  We  met  at  the  Gassell  House.  There  wasn't 
many  there  at  first,  not  enough  to  make  a  quorum. 
Then  in  walks  old  Sol  Badger,  an'  with  him  Lige 
Coons  from  Ball  to'nship,  an'  then  who  should  fol- 
low but  Pusey  himself!  Well,  I  didn't  think 
nothin'  of  it  then,  fer  I  s'posed  Pusey  had  come  in 
as  a  representative  of  the  press,  you  know,  and  o' 
course,  I  didn't  feel  like  sayin'  an'thin'.  Some  o* 
our  fellers  hadn't  got  in  yit,  but  when  Es  Miller 
arrived,  up  jumps  Pusey  an'  he  says,  'Well,  we've 
got  a  quorum  now,  let's  get  down  to  business.'  I 
looks  at  him  a  minute  inquirin'  like,  an'  he  smiles 
back  at  me  with  that  sof  grin  o'  his,  like  a  cat,  an' 
he  says,  'I  hold  Mr.  Golden's  proxy.'  " 

"Proxies !"  exclaimed  Garwood,  "so  that  was  It !" 

"Yes  sir,  ev'ry  one  o'  them  fellers  had  proxies, 
an' — well,  you  can  easy  see  how  it  come  out.  When 
I  see  how  it  had  been  fixed,  I  changed  my  plans  in 
a  minute,  an'  wanted  a  late  date  fer  the  convention, 
but  they  proposed  an  early  one,  fer  the  thirtieth. 
An'  on  the  test  vote  they  beat  us  by  just  one.  Well, 
Pusey  had  fixed  it  all  up  on  the  quiet.  They  sprung 
their  early  convention,  an',  though  they  hadn't  any 
candidate,  they  beat  the  resolutions  to  instruct  fer 
you,  an'  the  delegation  goes  to  the  convention  fer 
to  support  who  it  wants  to." 

"Whom  will  it  support?" 

"Well,  Sprague,  I  reckon." 


In  Convention  Assembled      209 

"I  thought  it  looked  like  one  of  his  tricks.  Has 
Moultrie  held  her  convention?" 

"No,  they  hold  it  next  Saturday." 

Garwood  was  silent  for  a  long  time.  He  drew  a 
large  cigar  from  his  pocket  and  lighted  it,  rolling 
out  its  thick,  rich  Havana  smoke  until  it  was  half 
consumed  before  he  spoke  again : 

"Well,  you've  played  hell,  haven't  you,  Jim?" 

Rankin  hung  his  head. 

"I'm  awful  sorry.  I  haven't  slep'  a  night  thinkin' 
of  it,  but — I  couldn't  help  it.  Pusey  done  it,  that's 
all." 

"Pusey!"  sneered  Garwood,  putting  all  his  con- 
tempt for  the  man  into  his  tone  as  he  sniffed  out 
his  name.  "Pusey !  To  think  of  Jim  Rankin's  let- 
ting Free  Pusey  lick  him  that  easy !" 

"Well,  w^e've  al'ays  underrated  Pusey,  I've  found 
that  out." 

"Yes,  you've  found  it  out — too  late." 

"Maybe.  But  he  's  slicker  'n  I  give  him  credit 
fer  bein'  an'  I  take  off  my  hat  to  him,  damn  his 
dirty,  lousy  little  soul!" 

The  two  men  sat  after  that,  staring  out  the  win- 
dow, watching  the  lawyers  coming  out  of  the 
court  house  across  the  wide  street,  Garwood  deep 
in  gloom,  wondering  if  he  would  have  to  resume 
that  life  with  the  rest  of  them.  They  looked  so 
poor,  their  work  so  little  and  contemptible  after 
all  he  had  grown  accustomed  to  in  Washington. 
Rankin,  however,  could  not  long  endure  such  a 
melancholy  attitude  and  he  roused  his  big  body 
presently  and  said: 


210  The  13th  District 

"But  there's  no  use  to  get  down  in  the  mouth. 
I've  won  worse  battles  'an  thiS;  an'  so've  you.  An' 
we  can  win  this.  The  delegation's  uninstructed,  an' 
I  forced  'em  to  put  some  of  our  fellers  on.  It  was 
the  hottest  convention  I  ever  see.  Wisht  you'd 
been  here." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Garwood  bitterly,  "so  do  I — 
instead  I  was  staying  on  down  in  Washington 
looking  after  their  interests  while  the  dear  people 
here  at  home  were  sharpening  knives  for  me.  How 
did  you  get  any  of  my  fellows  on  the  delegation?" 
he  suddenly  broke  ofif  to  demand. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  You  see,  I  might  'ave  had 
the  nomination  fer  county  treas'rer;  they  wanted 
me  to  take  it,  fer  they  feared  to  make  too  big  a 
break  in  the  party,  but  I  made  'em  let  me  name 
half  o'  the  delegation  instead," 

"Half?" 

"Yes,  half — we  split  it  up,  though  they  got  the 
odd  man." 

"You  on?" 

"Me?  You  bet  I'm  on,  an'  I'll  be  there,  don't 
you  forget  that." 

"You  didn't  want  the  treasurership  ?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  might  'ave  wanted  it,  some — it 
'uld  be  a  good  thing;  come  in  mighty  handy  just 
now."  And  Rankin  expressively  rattled  the  keys 
in  his  empty  pocket.  "But  I  thought  it  'uld  look 
like  treason  to  you,  an'  it  would ;  though  it  wasn't 
no  sacrifice,  you  havin'  promised  me  the  post-ofhce. 
I  knew  I  'as  sure  o'  that.  When  does  Bartlett's 
term  end?" 


In  Convention  Assembled      211 

"In  December,"  Garwood  replied. 

"Well,  I  can  hold  out  till  then,  if  the  neighbors 
keeps  on  bringin'  things  in.  You  couldn't  hurry 
it  up,  could  you?" 

"No,  hardly,"  said  Garwood.  "But,  tell  me,  what 
does  Pusey  expect  to  get  out  of  this?" 

"What  does  Pusey  expect  to  get  out  of  this? 
Why,  not  a  thing — but  the  post-office,  himself." 

"Has  Sprague  promised  it  to  him?" 

"Yes,  fer  enough  votes  from  Polk  to  nominate 
him." 

"Umph  humph,"  said  Garwood,  slowly,  through 
his  nose.     "Umph  humph." 

"But  if  it's  December  the  appointment's  made, 
we  can  fool  him  there,  we  can  fool  him  there,"  said 
Rankin,  gleefully. 

"Yes,"  said  Garwood,  though  not  heartily. 

And  then  Rankin  leaned  over  and  laid  a  hand  on 
Garwood's  knee. 

"But  don't  give  up  yet,  old  man,"  he  said.  "We 
can  pull  this  game  out  o'  the  fire ;  you  can  get  that 
nomination." 

Garwood  turned  on  him  angrily. 

"Yes,  oh  yes !"  he  sneered.  "Pretty  figure  I'll 
cut  going  to  a  convention  for  renomination  without 
my  own  county  behind  me!" 

"Well,  we  can  fix  that." 

"How?  I'd  like  to  know;  how?" 

"Why,  Pusey's  fellers  is  easy — you  can  get 
enough  o'  them." 

"How?"  Garwood  spoke  in  the  hollow  sternness 
of  despair. 


212  The  13th  District 

"Buy  'em." 

And  then  the  congressman  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed. 

"Buy  'em,  indeed!"  he  laughed  bitterly.  "Buy 
'em,  indeed !  Why,  man,  I  haven't  got  through 
paying  my  debts  from  the  last  campaign!" 

"Why,  you  get  a  sal'ry." 

"Yes,  but  it  costs  to  live  in  Washington — God, 
how  it  costs !  And  with  a  family  here  at  home  in 
the  bargain!" 

"Well— there's  the  old  man." 

"Oh,  hell !"  said  Garwood,  rising  in  total  loss  of 
patience,  "I'm  tired  of  hearing  this  everlasting 
twaddle  about  the  old  man!  He's  not  rich,  in  the 
first  place,  and  now  that  he's  out  of  the  bank  he's 
poorer  than  ever.  You  people  out  here  in  the  wil- 
derness think  because  a  man  was  once  president  of 
a  little  country  bank,  he's  a  millionaire.  He  hasn't 
anything  any  more." 

•  "Tell  me,  how'd  he  come  to  be  beat  fer  pres'dent 
o'  the  bank?"  said  Rankin,  ignoring  Garwood's  ill 
humor  in  his  zest  to  learn  at  last  the  inwardness  of 
a  story  about  which  Grand  Prairie  had  been  specu- 
lating for  six  months." 

"Oh,  I'll  tell  you  some  other  time,  Jim,"  he  an- 
swered.    "I've  got  to  go  now." 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 


Ill 


THE  year  and  a  half  that  had  gone  since  their 
brilHant  wedding-  had  passed  more  slowly  for 
Emily  than  for  Garwood.  They  had  gone 
East  on  a  wedding  journey,  for  Jerome  had  been 
able,  as  the  first  perquisites  of  his  new  position,  to 
get  passes,  a  trick  he  had  already  learned  in  the 
Legislature,  though  there  his  "transportation"  had 
been  confined  to  the  limits  of  Illinois.  They  had 
gone  to  New  York  and  of  course  to  Washington, 
where  their  interests  now  centered.  There  they 
made  the  conventional  rounds,  visiting  the  Capitol 
and  the  White  House,  the  Treasury  and  the  Patent 
Office,  ascending  the  Washington  Monument,  go- 
ing over  to  Arlington  and  down  to  Mt.  Vernon, 
seeing  all  the  sights.  Emily  thus  gained  a  store  of 
memories  that  served  her  well  in  the  months  that 
came  after.  She  said  she  could  the  better  imagine 
Jerome  going  the  daily  rounds  of  his  important 
duties  for  having  seen  the  places  in  which  he  would 
be,  and  Garwood  himself  found  that  it  was  well  to 
have  visited  on  his  wedding  trip  all  the  points  of 
interest  about  the  city,  else  he  never  would  have 
visited  them  at  all.  It  mattered  not,  perhaps,  that 
Emily's  imaginings  of  her  husband's  goings  and 
comings  in  Washington  were  far  from  the  reality — 
they  served  her  as  well  as  any. 

She    had    planned    during    the    long    year    in 
213 


214  The  13th  District 

which  Garwood  waited  so  impatiently  for  the  sit- 
ting of  Congress  to  go  to  Washington  with  him. 
They  had  talked  of  it  all  the  winter  and  during  the 
spring.  When  March  came  and  with  its  fourth 
day  brought  the  sense  that  he  was  now  in  reality  a 
congressman,  Garwood  had  felt  an  increase  of  im- 
portance with  an  increase  of  impatience.  The  com- 
ing of  his  first  voucher  soon  after  was  a  joy  to 
them  both,  and  the  four  hundred  and  sixteen 
dollars  and  sixty-six  cents  it  called  for  seemed  to 
link  them  more  firmly  to  officialdom.  But  Gar- 
wood longed  to  be  sitting  in  his  seat  in  the  House 
of  Representatives;  to  hear  his  name  in  the  roll- 
call;  he  felt  that  he  would  not  realize  it  all  until 
he  had  been  there  long  enough  to  have  grown 
familiar,  and  yet  not  so  long  as  to  begin  to  dread 
the  end.  And  Emily  felt  that  her  joy  would  not 
be  full  until  she  had  seen  him  there. 

The  whole  time  for  her  had  held  other  duties, 
duties  of  a  sacred  preparation,  when  she  sat  long 
days  in  the  sunlight,  with  her  eyelids  drooped  over 
white  garments  in  her  lap.  Garwood  had  never 
been  so  tender  of  her  before,  and  he  hung  about 
in  a  soHcitude  that  betrayed  a  man's  love  and  a 
boy's  awkwardness.  With  a  woman's  superior 
intuition  she  was  the  dominant  one  in  those  days, 
though  the  coming  of  the  baby  late  in  the  fall  left 
her  helpless,  and  restored  him  suddenly  to  self- 
confidence.  So,  after  all,  when  December  came, 
with  its  long  anticipated  first  Monday,  Emily  could 
not  go  to  Washington  with  her  husband  and, 
bruised  by  the  wrench  of  their  first  parting,  she 


In  Convention  Assembled      215 

was  left  in  the  house  with  her  father  and  her  boy 
to  face  a  long  winter  alone.  All  that  winter  she 
carefully  read  the  accounts  in  the  newspapers  of 
the  proceedings  of  Congress,  and  cast  her  eye  each 
morning  down  the  wide  columns  of  the  Congres- 
sional Record  seeking  the  magic  name  "Mr.  Gar- 
wood." 

It  was  only  once  or  twice  that  she  had  the  joy  of 
finding  Jerome's  name,  and  then  what  he  said 
seemed  formal  and  distant,  and  did  not  have  a  per- 
sonal appeal  to  her.  For  instance,  late  in  the  ses- 
sion, she  read: 

"Mr.  Garwood  addressed  the  Committee  of  the 
Whole." 

And  then  in  maddening  parenthesis : 

"(His  remarks  will  appear  later.)" 

But  when  they  did  appear  later,  weeks  later,  on 
the  very  first  page  of  the  Record,  with  the  words, 
"Speech  of  the  Honorable  Jerome  B.  Garwood," 
in  black  types  at  the  head,  they  were  long  and  full 
of  statistics,  not  at  all  like  the  fiery  speech  he  had 
made  that  last  night  of  the  campaign.  She  could 
find  no  mention  of  the  speech  in  the  daily  newspa- 
pers, and  she  had  her  fears  that  Jerome  was  not 
being  appreciated.  He  had  made  an  effort  at  first 
to  write  to  her  daily,  but  soon  there  were  lengthy 
intervals  between  the  letters,  and  the  letters  them- 
selves grew  shorter,  seeming  to  have  been  written 
late  at  night,  when  he  was  tired  and  sleepy.  But 
they  were  always  filled  with  admonitions  for  the 
boy,  and  Emily  found  joy  in  translating  them  into 
the  baby  tongue  the  child  understood  so  well,  as 


2i6  The  I  3th   District 

she  could  tell  by  the  big  blue  eyes  and  the  cooings 
of  his  drooling  little  lips. 

In  January,  just  as  she  was  beginning  to  recover 
her  strength,  a  new  trial  came  upon  her,  the  last 
she  had  ever  anticipated.  The  directors  of  the  bank 
held  their  annual  meeting,  and  to  the  surprise  of 
all  Grand  Prairie,  her  father  was  not  reelected 
president.  It  was  a  blow  to  him,  though  he  was  too 
proud  to  show  it.  Yet  Emily  could  see  the  change 
it  wrought  in  him.  He  seemed  to  age  suddenly, 
and  shrank  from  going  out,  spending  most  of  his 
time  in  his  library,  where  he  pretended  to  be  read- 
ing his  books,  though  she  often  surprised  him  with 
his  glasses  between  the  leaves  in  the  old  familiar 
way,  gazing  out  at  nothing.  He  had  made  the  fatal 
discovery  that  old  age  was  upon  him  at  last. 

Dade  had  gone  away  with  her  mother  in  search 
of  health  at  some  new  springs  in  Maine.  After 
trying  their  waters  for  a  while  they  suddenly  de- 
parted for  Europe,  as  Dade  announced  in  an  ecstatic 
letter.  Now  they  were  in  Holland,  and  Dade  wrote 
from  Amsterdam  of  the  quaintness  of  the  place 
and  of  the  picturesque  sails  of  the  boats  on  the  little 
Amstel,  comparing  them  for  color  to  those  one 
sees,  or  imagines,  on  the  Adriatic. 

And  so  Emily  was  left  alone  with  her  old  father 
and  infant  child.  She  had  looked  forward  ardently 
to  the  adjournment  of  Congress  and  Jerome's  re- 
turn. Now  that  he  was  come,  she  found  that  she 
was  to  see  little  of  him.  He  must  plunge  into  the 
campaign,  he  said. 

On  this  Monday  morning,  he  came  in  late  for 


In  Convention  Assembled      217 

dinner,  clapped  his  hands  two  or  three  times  i-n  the 
baby's  face,  laughed  at  the  winking  of  the  blue 
eyes,  ate  his  dinner  alone  at  a  corner  of  the  dining 
table,  smoked  a  cigar,  read  the  Chicago  papers, 
threw  them  in  a  heap  on  the  floor,  and  then 
stretched  himself  on  the  divan  in  a  dark  corner  of 
the  parlor  and  went  to  sleep. 


IV 


EMILY  put  the  child  to  bed  and  then  went 
down  into  the  Hbrary  to  join  her  father,  who 
sat  with  his  book  in  the  mellow  circle  of  the 
reading  lamp.  She  entered  the  room  softly  from 
the  habit  that  had  grown  upon  her  in  the  hours 
when  the  baby  might  be  wakened,  and  she  sank 
into  a  chair  and  folded  her  hands  with  a  sigh.  Her 
father  slowly  glanced  at  her  tired,  thin  face,  but 
did  not  move  his  head.  He  seemed  to  be  reading 
on,  but  presently  he  said,  still  without  moving: 

"Tired?" 

Emily  lifted  her  head  from  the  back  of  the  chair 
on  which  she  had  been  resting  it,  fastened  a  lock 
of  her  hair,  smiled  and  said: 

"Oh,  no." 

"You  let  that  young  John  E.,  or  whatever  his 
name  is,  wear  you  out,"  her  father  insisted,  taking 
his  glasses  from  his  nose  and  marking  his  place 
in  his  book  after  his  old  custom. 

"Poor  child!"  the  mother  said.  "He's  not  well. 
I  dread  the  summer  so." 

"He  seems  fretful,"  said  the  father,  with  a  shade 
of  his  original  resentment  lingering  in  his  tone. 

"Oh,  it's  not  that,  father,"  Emily  replied.  "He's 
so  active  and  full  of  energy.  Mother  Garwood  says 
Jerome  was  just  so  when  he  was  a  baby." 

"Been  over  there?" 

218 


In  Convention  Assembled      219 

"Yes,  I  ran  over  to-day  to  ask  her  some  things 
about  baby.     She  knows  all  about  them." 

"Well,  you  ought  to  have  a  nurse,"  he  said. 

"We  can't  afford  it,"  the  mother  repHed. 

"Can't  afford  it!     He  gets  enough!" 

"I  know  it,  but  it's  so  expensive  living,  as  Je- 
rome must,  at  a  hotel  in  Washington.  And  he's 
in  debt,  with  another  campaign  coming  on.  That'll 
cost,  you  know." 

The  old  man  raised  himself  in  his  chair. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "that  with  five  thou- 
sand a  year,  he  might — " 

The  daughter  also  raised  herself  in  her  chair  and 
her  dull  eyes  caught  back  some  of  their  old  bright- 
ness. 

"You  know,  father,  that  Jerome  does  the  best  he 
can—" 

She  stopped ;  and  so  did  he.  They  had  sounded 
that  note  several  times  of  late.  The  truth  was, 
that  the  presence  of  Garwood  in  the  house  was  al- 
ready beginning  to  have  its  effect  on  his  father-in- 
law.  When  Garwood  was  in  Washington  Hark- 
ness  felt  a  pride  in  him,  but  after  he  had  been  at 
home  for  awhile,  his  various  characteristics  one 
after  another  got  on  the  old  man's  nerves,  until  he 
could  scarcely  treat  him  civilly.  He  detested  Gar- 
wood's lazy  habits,  his  lying  abed  in  the  mornings, 
his  afternoon  naps,  though  Harkness  took  naps 
himself,  and  he  distrusted  his  long  absences  at 
night.  More  than  all  he  inwardly  raged  at  Gar- 
wood's extravagance,  though  he  dared  not  com- 
plain of  it,  for  Emily  had  been  firm  in  her  insist- 


220  The  13  th   District 

ence  that  they  pay  for  their  board,  knowing,  as  she 
did,  her  father's  punctiHousness  in  matters  of 
money,  a  disposition  Hkely  to  be  cuUivated  by  those 
who  have  money  enough  to  gratify  it.  Harkness 
would  doubtless  have  preferred  that  the  Garwoods 
keep  house,  as  Jerome  was  always  threatening  to 
do,  but  he  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  the  loneli- 
ness Emily's  absence  would  add  to  his  idleness. 
Restrained  therefore  from  complaining  of  Gar- 
wood, his  discontent  expressed  itself  in  complaints 
of  himself,  and  he  shuffled  about  the  house  with  a 
martyr's  patient  suffering  written  in  his  face,  low- 
ering himself  carefully  into  his  chair  whenever  he 
sat  down,  with  a  prolonged,  senile  "Ah-h-h-h"  that 
heralded,  as  he  meant  it  to  do,  the  encroachments 
of  age. 

And  then  the  baby  worried  him.  They  had  given 
the  boy  his  name,  Ethan,  but  they  prefixed  it  with 
the  other  name  of  John,  which  had  belonged  to 
Garwood's  father.  Garwood  had  mildly  protested 
against  the  name  of  Ethan  because  he  didn't  care 
for  biblical  names,  though  Emily  had  insisted  that 
Ethan  was  not  a  biblical  name.  The  argument  had 
been  settled,  at  least  to  Garwood's  satisfaction,  for 
he  claimed  to  have  found  the  name  in  the  Old  Tes- 
tament, but  with  a  firmness  for  which  Emily  said  the 
name  itself  stood,  she  insisted  that  the  mere  men- 
tion of  it  in  Holy  Writ  did  not  constitute  it  a  bib- 
lical name.  But  though  young  John  Ethan  kept  his 
grandfather's  name  he  never  found  a  way  to  his 
grandfather's  graces,  at  least  he  had  not  done  so 
yet,  and  this  only  added  another  complication  to 


In  Convention  Assembled      221 

the  many  in  which  Emily  found  her  life  enmeshed. 

And  so 'this  evening  Harkness  took  refuge  in  his 
senility  and  his  troubles. 

"Well,"  he  ventured  with  a  sigh  that  he  knew 
was  pathetic,  "if  I  could  only  afford  it  I'd  take  you 
and  the  boy  away  for  the  summer,  but  I'm  poor 
now  and  old." 

"I  couldn't  leave  Jerome  just  now,  father,  but 
this  talk  about  your  being  poor  and  old  is  absurd, 
absurd — and  I  want  you  to  quit  it.  Why  don't  you 
go  away  this  summer?  Go  back  to  New  Hamp- 
shire for  a  rest.  It  would  do  you  a  world  of  good, 
and  you've  always  said  you  were  going  as  soon  as 
you  could  get  away  from  the  bank." 

She  checked  herself,  perceiving  that  she  had  hit 
on  an  unfortunate  subject,  but  her  father  replied 
with  a  return  of  his  old  dry  humor: 

"Yes,  the  bank  was  the  principal  obstacle,  and 
that's  been  removed  now." 

He  set  his  lips  bitterly,  and  picked  up  his  book 
again.  There  was  silence  in  the  library,  and  Emily 
rested.  Now  and  then  her  father  glanced  at  her, 
but  she  did  not  move.  She  lay  back  in  her  chair, 
relaxed  in  every  fiber.  He  stood  her  inaction  as 
long  as  any  man  could,  and  then  demanded: 

"Why  don't  you  do  something?  Ain't  you  going 
to  read?" 

She  did  rouse  herself,  obedient  to  his  whims,  but 
she  made  an  excuse : 

"I  must  go  up  and  see  how  the  baby's  getting 
along." 

"Coming  down  again?" 


222  The  13th  District 

"No;  leave  the  door  open  for  Jerome  when  you 
come  up,  will  you?" 

And  then  he  was  left  to  the  expectant  silence  that 
oppresses  a  household  when  it  awaits  the  coming 
of  one  of  its  members  before  it  can  settle  down  for 
the  night.  It  was  after  midnight  when  Garwood 
came.  He  threw  the  reeking  end  of  his  cigar  into 
the  yard  and  toiled  up  the  stairs  breathing  heavily. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  Emily  asked  when  he 
entered  their  rooms. 

"Down  town;  where'd  you  suppose?"  he  an- 
swered. 

"Is  there  any  news?" 

"News?     What  of?" 

"Why,  of  politics." 

"Well,  I've  got  a  fight  on  my  hands,  that's  the 
news."  He  spoke  as  if  she  were  responsible  for 
the  fact,  and  she  felt  it. 

"You  know  how  interested  the  baby  and  I  are, 
Jerome.    We've  been  waiting  here  to  hear." 

He  softened  at  the  mention  of  his  child,  and  bent 
over  his  cradle. 

"Don't  waken  him,"  the  mother  said,  as  he  put 
forth  his  big  hand.  And  then  she  resumed  her 
questioning. 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Rankin?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,"  she  said  hopefully,  with  the  faith  they 
had  always  held  in  Rankin,  "he  can  bring  it  around 
all  right,  can't  he?" 

"He!"  said  Garwood.    "He's  a  back  number!" 


In  Convention  Assembled      223 

She  drew  the  story  out  of  him,  and  when  she 
had  done  so,  she  said : 

"Well,  you  don't  forget,  Jerome,  that  you  once 
said  to  me  that  we  must  be  good  to  Jim  Rankin." 

He  made  no  reply  for  a  long  time,  and  she 
followed  him  with  eyes  that  looked  large  in  her 
thin  face.  After  awhile,  he  paused  in  trying  to 
unbutton  his  collar,  and  turned  his  head  around, 
his  chin  thrust  pointedly  out  over  his  hands. 

"If  I  were  out  of  debt,"  he  said,  "I'd  quit  the 
whole  business  and  open  a  law  office  in  Chicago, 
and  let  politics  alone." 

It  was  a  common  threat  with  him  when  he  was 
discouraged.  And  she  had  long  since  learned  that 
the  threat  to  leave  politics  was  common  to  all  poli- 
ticians, Just  as  the  threat  to  leave  the  sea  is  com- 
mon to  all  sailors,  or  the  threat  to  leave  newspaper 
work  to  all  newspaper  men.  She  felt  herself  the 
fascination  of  the  life,  and  so  knew  the  insincerity 
of  the  threat. 

"Oh,  you  always  say  that  when  you're  blue. 
Don't  worry  any  more  to-night." 


V 


THE  Freeman  H.  Pusey  of  his  second  cam- 
paign was  after  all  the  same  Freeman  H. 
Pusey  Garwood  had  known  in  his  first  cam- 
paign. When  Garwood  entered  the  editorial  room 
of  the  Citizen  that  afternoon  he  expected,  as  the 
result  of  Rankin's  description,  to  see  a  regenerated 
Pusey,  but  he  found  instead  the  same  old  character. 
The  little  editor  sat  at  a  common  kitchen  table 
worn  brown  and  smooth  by  time  and  elbows  and 
piled  with  papers  that  showed  deep  deposits  of  dust 
in  their  folds  and  wrinkles. 

Those  at  the  bottom  of  the  pile  were  darkened 
and  seared  by  age,  the  strata  of  later  eras 
were  in  varying  tones  of  yellow,  while  those  atop, 
the  latest  exchanges,  were  fresh  and  white,  though 
they  showed  great  gaps  where  they  had  been  man- 
gled by  the  long,  shiny  scissors  that  lay  at  the  edi- 
tor's elbow.  The  scissors  were  the  only  thing  about 
the  establishment  that  shone,  unless  it  were  the 
cockroaches,  which  ran  over  everything,  and 
mounted  the  old  paste  pot,  to  scramble  as  nimbly 
as  sailors  up  the  unkempt  brush  which  held  a  dirty 
handle  aloft  for  instant  use.  The  shining  cock- 
roaches swarmed  so  thickly  about  the  brush,  paus- 
ing now  and  then  to  wave  their  inquisitive  anten- 
nae, that  Pusey,  before  he  could  prepare  an  editorial, 
had  to  put  them  to  rout,  and  he  did  this  with  his 
224 


In  Convention  Assembled      225 

scissors,  thrusting  at  the  merry  insects  with  the 
point  of  them  from  time  to  time  in  a  way  that  had 
become  habitual. 

The  desk  had  other  articles  of  furniture,  an  old 
cigar  box  half-full  of  tobacco,  with  an  old  corn- 
cob pipe  sticking  in  it — the  only  thing  there  that 
the  cockroaches  avoided — and  a  copy  hook,  on 
which  Pusey  had  just  hung  the  sheets  of  a 
leaded  editorial,  to  be  set  up  as  time-copy.  Be- 
fore him  lay  a  pile  of  copy  paper,  and  with  these 
implements  Freeman  H.  Pusey  molded  public 
opinion  in  Polk  County. 

The  room  was  dark,  for  the  windows  were  thick 
with  dirt.  From  the  room  beyond  came  the  slow, 
measured  clank  and  jar  of  the  old  bed-press,  then 
running  off  the  afternoon  edition,  shaking  the 
building  with  each  revolution  of  its  cylinder.  And 
over  all  hung  the  smell  of  printer's  ink,  with  its 
eternal  fascination  for  him  who  has  ever  breathed 
it  long. 

The  clothes  that  Pusey  wore  may  or  may  not 
have  once  been  new.  Garwood  would  have  been 
willing,  out  of  court,  and  perhaps  in  court,  had  he 
been  retained  on  that  side  of  the  case,  to  identify 
them  as  the  ones  Pusey  had  worn  when  last  he  saw 
him.  Just  now,  however,  the  coat  was  off  and  hang- 
ing on  the  back  of  the  chair  with  the  same  casual 
impermanent  effect  that  characterized  the  old  straw 
hat  that  sat  back  on  Pusey's  head  showing  the  scant 
hair  that  straggled  over  his  dirty  scalp.  The  editor 
was  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  the  frayed  wrist-bands  of 


226  The  13  th   District 

which  were  edged  with  black,  and  his  feet  for  ease 
were  encased  in  old  carpet  slippers. 

His  face,  and  his  mouth,  with  the  small 
mustache  dyed  black  in  that  strange  vanity  which 
did  not  extend  to  the  rest  of  his  person, 
still  had  its  moist  appearance  of  olden  times,  and 
he  smoked  his  cigar,  blowing  the  clouds  of 
smoke  all  about  him.  Having  turned  out  as  much 
time-copy  as  the  waning  energies  of  his  mind 
could  produce  on  such  a  hot  afternoon  he  was  now 
clipping  paragraphs  out  of  the  exchanges  to  add  to 
those  which  would  keep  the  printers  in  work  for 
the  remaining  hours  of  the  day  their  union  had 
decreed.  He  did  his  work  with  the  leisurely  air 
that  settles  on  editors  in  the  first  few  minutes  that 
ensue  after  the  paper  has  gone  to  press,  pausing 
now  and  then  to  stick  at  a  cockroach  with  his  scis- 
sors. As  Garwood  entered,  Pusey  lifted  his  eye- 
brows, and  bending  his  gaze  over  the  rims  of  his 
spectacles  tried  to  identify  his  caller  through  the 
gloom  of  his  sanctum.  When  he  saw  who  it  was, 
he  merely  said: 

"Sit  down,"  and  plunged  the  point  of  his  scissors 
into  another  exchange. 

Garwood  had  been  considering  this  visit  for  a 
number  of  days.  The  disappointment  of  arriving 
home  to  find  that  his  county  had  failed  to  endorse 
him,  had  been  sinking  more  and  more  sorely  into 
his  soul.  It  had  seemed  to  him  that  a  renomination 
by  acclamation  was  his  by  rights.  Many  of  his  col- 
leagues had  already  received  such  endorsements,  or 
vindications  as  they  mostly  called  them,  before  they 


In  Convention  Assembled      227 

left  Washington,  and  Garwood  had  helped  them  to 
celebrate  these  triumphs  in  various  bar-rooms. 

He  had  been  irritated  by  the  fact  that  he  could 
not  now  spend  his  summer  as  befitted  a  congress- 
man, and  obtain  the  rest  a  congressman  certainly 
requires  after  his  onerous  duties  at  Washington; 
that  is,  by  taking  a  dignified  walk  down  town  in 
the  morning,  and  a  dignified  nap  in  the  after- 
noon. In  the  evenings  he  had  pictured  him- 
self sitting  on  the  veranda  at  home,  as  he  now 
considered  the  Harkness  residence,  with  his  legs 
crossed  and  a  cane  between  them,  smoking 
a  cigar,  and  enlightening  his  wife  and  father- 
in-law,  while  Grand  Prairie  rode  by  and  said: 
"There's  our  congressman,  he's  home  for  the 
summer."  But  instead  he  had  come  home  to  find 
his  own  bailiwick  invaded,  his  old  friend  Rankin 
defeated,  and  his  old  enemy,  Pusey,  prospering  be- 
yond all  expectation,  with  a  respectable  newspaper 
in  which  he  printed  articles  slyly  reflecting  upon 
Garwood,  calling  attention  to  the  need  of  a  new 
post-office  in  Grand  Prairie;  to  the  beauties  of  un- 
instructed  delegations,  whereby  the  people,  for 
whom,  in  his  renaissance,  Pusey  was  more  than 
ever  soHcitous,  could  at  last  achieve  their  rights; 
to  the  fate  that  pursued  arrogant  bosses  like  Jim 
Rankin,  and  so  on. 

But  some  of  his  old  resolution  had  come  back  to 
Garwood  even  in  his  enervation.  He  determined 
to  submit  to  defeat,  if  at  all,  only  after  a  battle.  He 
was  sorry  he  had  scolded  Jim  Rankin  so.  After  all, 
though  he  was  no  longer  chairman  of  the  county 


228  The  I  3  th  District 

committee  and  had  been  beaten  in  the  county  con- 
vention, Rankin  was  still  chairman  of  the  congres- 
sional committee,  and  still  his  friend.  Rankin  had 
only  laughed  at  his  reproaches,  good  natured  as 
ever.  It  would  not  do  to  break  with  Rankin.  And 
so,  he  had  set  out  in  the  morning  to  see  Rankin. 
He  had  not  found  him  at  any  of  his  usual  haunts, 
nor  at  the  real  estate  and  loan  office  where  Rankin 
made  pretense  of  doing  some  sort  of  insurance 
business,  and  going  at  last  to  Rankin's  home  he  had 
been  told  by  Mrs.  Rankin  that  Jim  had  gone  out  of 
town,  she  did  not  know  where.  He  would  not  be 
back  for  two  or  three  days.  Garwood's  intention 
had  been  to  call  a  conference  of  his  closest  friends 
in  Grand  Prairie,  and  outline  some  plan  of  action, 
though  none  had  occurred  to  him  as  yet.  But  he 
determined  to  defer  this  until  Rankin's  return. 

The  notion  of  calling  on  Pusey  had  been  a  sud- 
den inspiration,  born  of  the  necessity  of  doing 
something  at  once,  for  his  inaction  was  becoming 
intolerable,  especially  with  stories  coming  to  him 
constantly  of  Sprague's  work  in  other  counties. 

He  sat  down  at  Pusey's  bidding,  and  taking  off 
his  Panama  hat,  began  fanning  himself. 

"Hot,  ain't  it?"  said  Pusey,  still  clipping  out  his 
little  paragraphs. 

"Yes,"  said  Garwood  distantly.  It  was  not  the 
heat  of  the  weather  that  then  distressed  him.  Pusey 
kept  his  head  turned  away,  so  that  Garwood  had 
only  the  side  of  his  face,  and  its  wizened  profile  did 
not  show  the  satisfaction  that  smiled  in  it.  Pusey 
was  willing  to  keep  all  to  himself  the  enjoyment  of 


In  Convention  Assembled      229 

having  Garwood  humble  himself  by  calling  upon 
him, — him,  whom  Garwood  had  once  despised.  In- 
deed, the  satisfaction  he  felt  was  so  lively  that  he 
was  somewhat  mollified  in  spirit  and,  had  he  known 
it,  Garwood  could  hardly  have  done  a  wiser  or  more 
politic  thing  than  to  pay  this  visit  to  this  same 
Pusey. 

"Yes,  it's  hot,"  said  Garwood,  "though  not  so 
hot  as  it  was  in  Washington.  That's  the  hottest 
place  in  summer,  you  know,  in  the  whole  world." 

"So  I've  heard,"  said  Pusey,  stooping  to  paste 
one  of  his  little  paragraphs  on  a  sheet  of  copy  paper. 
He  showed,  however,  no  inclination  to  turn  the 
conversation  from  its  perfunctory  channel.  Indeed, 
the  conventionality  of  it  rather  suited  his  mood  and 
gratified  his  pride,  so  that  he  was  content  to  keep 
Garwood  under  his  embarrassment  as  long  as  pos- 
sible.    But  Garwood  launched  into  his  subject. 

"I  came  over  to  see  you,  Mr.  Pusey,"  he  began, 
"and  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  about — politics." 

"Ah?"  said  Pusey,  superciliously. 

Garwood  could  have  crushed  him  for  his  tone  as 
Pusey  would  have  crushed  the  cockroaches  he  could 
never  hit,  but  he  was  better  schooled  to  his  part  and 
he  thought  of  the  agonies  of  defeat.  He  needed 
every  dollar  of  his  salary  now.    So  he  went  on : 

"You  are  on  the  delegation,  I  believe?" 

"I  believe  I  am ;  yes,"  Pusey  replied. 

"Very  well,"  said  Garwood,  unable  to  resist  the 
impulse  to  assume  his  congressional  manner,  "very 
well.  And  I  understand  that  you  are  opposed  to 
my  renomination." 


230  The  13  th   District 

"I  haven't  said  so,  have  I?"  said  Pusey,  turning 
his  head  for  the  first  time  and  squinting  at  Gar- 
wood over  his  spectacles. 

"I  don't  knov/." 

The  reply  took  Pusey  by  surprise,  and  he  losi 
something  of  his  position. 

"Well,  I  haven't,"  he  answered. 

"But  you  opposed  me  in  the  convention." 

"No,  not  quite  that,"  Pusey  answered. 

"Well,"  and  Garwood  smiled  his  old  consequen- 
tial smile  once  more  and  gathered  his  power  to  put 
others  ill  at  ease,  "it  amounted  to  that." 

"No,  you  are  a  bit  mistaken,  Mr.  Garwood," 
Pusey  replied.  "What  I  did  was  to  oppose  instruc- 
tions. I  believed,  you  know,  in  sending  a  delega- 
tion to  the  convention  that  shall  be  absolutely  free 
and  untrammeled,  so  that  it  might  be,  as  I  may  say, 
instantly  responsive  to  the  will  of  the  people.  That 
is  all." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Garwood;  "I  see.  But  let  me 
ask  this — you  are  opposed  to  my  nomination,  aren't 
you  ?" 

Pusey  was  silent  and  did  not  answer  for  a  long 
time.  He  cut  out  another  paragraph  and  cocked 
his  little  head  to  one  side,  tilting  the  old  straw  hat 
ridiculously  as  he  trimmed  the  edges  of  the  slip 
with  unusual  and  unnecessary  care. 

"No,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  haven't  said  that, 
either." 

"Well,  then,  to  get  at  it  in  another  way — you  will 
pardon  me,  Mr.  Pusey,  for  my  persistent  interroga- 


In  Convention  Assembled      231 

tlon — let  me  ask  you  this:  You  are  in  favor  of 
Mr.  Sprague's  nomination,  are  you  not?" 

'1  haven't  said  that,  either,"  Pusey  promptly 
replied. 

"Then,  if  I  understand  your  position,  you  are 
free  and  untrammeled  like  the  delegation.  Is  that 
right?" 

"Exactly,"  said  Pusey,  laying  down  his  scissors 
and  his  papers,  folding  his  hands  in  his  lap,  and 
screwing  about  in  his  chair  until  for  the  first  time 
he  squarely  faced  Garwood,  at  whom  he  looked 
pertly,  as  little  men  can,  through  his  spectacles, 
"exactly." 

He  snapped  out  the  word  as  if  he  relished  it. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Garwood,  hitching  his  chair 
closer  as  if  instantly  to  seize  his  advantage,  "that 
warrants  me  in  asking  you  whether  or  not  you  can 
give  me  your  support?" 

Pusey  lowered  his  eyes  and  turned  his  face  away. 
He  began  plucking  at  the  few  withered  hairs  on  his 
chin. 

"What  do  you  say?"  Garwood  pressed  him, 

"Well,"  Pusey  hemmed,  "I  am  hardly  able  to 
determine  so  important  a  matter  as  that  instantly, 
Mr.  Garwood.  Complications  might  arise  which 
would  not  render  it  expedient  for  me  to — " 

Garwood  did  not  wait  for  Pusey  to  unwind  one 
of  the  long  sentences  he  loved  so  well,  but  broke  in : 

"See  here,  Pusey,  let's  be  frank  about  this  thing. 
You  and  I  may  not  have  been  friends  in  the  past, 
but—" 


232  The  13  th  District 

"I've  always  treated  you  fairly  since  I  ran  a  party 
organ,  haven't  I?"  Pusey  interpolated. 

"Yes,  I  think  you  have,  Pusey,  and  I  thank  you 
for  it.  I've  appreciated  it.  I  was,  in  a  way,  glad 
to  see  you  get  hold  of  the  Citizen,  for  I  knew  you 
could  make  a  newspaper  of  it ;  you've  got  the  abil- 
ity."    Pusey   glowed,    and    Garwood    continued: 

"But  I've  come  to  see  you  in  your  capacity  of 
delegate  to  a  convention  before  which  I  am  a  can- 
didate. I  don't  want  to  take  up  any  more  of  your 
time  than  is  necessary,  but  it  has  occurred  to  me 
that  if  we  had  a  little  confidential  chat,  we  might 
understand  each  other  better,  that's  all.  I  haven't 
come  to  beg  any  favors,  or  any  thing  of  that  sort, 
but  merely  to  see  where  we  stand,  what  we  could 
expect  of  each  other." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  called,  Mr.  Garwood.  I  am 
of  course  honored" — the  editor  gave  an  absurd  nod 
of  his  head  in  Garwood's  direction  by  way  of  a 
bow. 

"As  I  say,"  Garwood  continued,  warming,  "I've 
come  to  see  you  as  a  citizen  and  as  a  delegate,  and 
to  ask  you  if  you  can  conscientiously  support  me 
for  renomination.  There  is  no  other  candidate 
from  this  county,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  as  a  mat- 
ter of  local  pride  you  might  prefer  a  man  from 
your  home  to  one  from  some  other  county." 

"Well,"  Pusey  answered,  "there  is  of  course  that 
aspect  of  the  case,  Mr.  Garwood.  I  do  not  say  that 
I  will  not  support  you,  neither  do  I  say  I  will.  I 
will  say  this,  that  if  you  are  nominated  I  shall  sup- 
port you  for  election  earnestly  and  heartily;  I  may 


In  Convention  Assembled      233 

be  permitted  to  add,  perhaps,  effectively.  But  for 
the  present  I  prefer  not  to  commit  myself.  You 
understand  my  position,  both  as  a  citizen  and  as  an 
editor.  Of  course  conditions  may  arise  under 
which  I  would  give  you  my  vote  and  my  support." 

"May  I  ask  what  those  conditions  are  ?"  Garwood 
leaned  over  to  ask. 

*'I  do  not  say,  mark  me,"  Pusey  replied  in  a  cor- 
rective tone,  "that  the  conditions  exist  now,  but  that 
they  may  arise." 

"Could  you  indicate  them?" 

"I  would  prefer,  Mr.  Garwood,  to  let  events  take 
their  own  course  and  shape  themselves.  The  con- 
vention has  not  been  called  yet,  and  is  some  weeks 
off;  there  will  be  ample  time.  I  wish  for  the  pres- 
ent to  feel  that  I  am  free  to  pursue  the  course  that 
seems  wise  to  me— ^as  a  citizen  and  as  an  editor, 
you  understand." 

"Very  well,"  said  Garwood,  "I  am  at  least  glad 
to  know  that  you  are  uncommitted ;  I  am  also  glad 
I  called,  and" — he  arose — "I  shall  perhaps  do  my- 
self the  honor  to  call  again."  He  bowed  and  left, 
and  when  he  had  gone,  and  the  mockery  was  all 
over,  Pusey  took  the  pipe  from  the  tobacco  box, 
filled  it,  and  lighted  it  from  a  gas  jet  he 
kept  burning  for  that  very  purpose.  He  smoked  in 
a  way  that  evinced  no  enjoyment  in  tobacco  what- 
ever; he  smoked  in  a  dry,  habitual  way,  as  he 
talked,  and  ate,  and  wrote,  but  now  he  enjoyed  his 
reflections,  for  Garwood,  who  once  had  spurned 
him,  had  called  and  humbled  himself.  Suddenly, 
however,  an  idea  struck  him,  and  hastily  leaning 


234  The  13  th  District 

over  and  hooking  his  toes  in  their  carpet  sHppers 
behind  the  legs  of  his  chair,  he  wrote  feverishly 
for  an  instant.  When  he  had  done  he  read  the  item 
over,  drew  a  line  down  through  it,  marked  it 
"must,"  and  hung  it  on  his  copy  hook. 

The  item  appeared  the  following  evening  in  the 
Citizen.     It  was  this : 

"Hon.  Jerome  B.  Garwood  called  upon  us  yester- 
day afternoon.  The  congressman  is  looking  ex- 
tremely well,  despite  his  long  and  arduous  duties 
in  the  Capital,  and  the  severe  heat  that  marks  the 
recent  season  of  the  year  at  Washington.  The  con- 
gressman is  home  for  the  summer.  Call  again. 
Congressman." 

The  evening  following  the  Advertiser,  the  organ 
of  the  opposition  which,  in  Polk  County  at  least, 
had  never  been  called  into  responsibility,  copied 
Pusey's  personal  item  and  made  this  comment: 

"When  the  congressman  calls  again  he  will  be 
wise  to  take  the  post-office  with  him,  or  something 
equally  as  substantial  as  that  which  he  is  said  to 
have  received  over  at  Springfield  in  the  long  ago." 


VI 


IT  was  summer,  the  full  flushed  summer  of  cen- 
tral Illmois  and  the  corn  stood  tall  on  the 
Sangamon  bottoms,  flashing  its  heavy  blades 
in  the  sun.  Miles  and  miles  it  spread  across  Logan, 
and  Polk,  and  on  into  Moultrie  County,  where  the 
Kaskaskia  flows  widening  down  to  join  the 
Mississippi  at  a  place  where  the  Sucker  state 
found  the  picturesque  beginnings  of  its  history. 
There  were  long,  calm  days  of  scorching  heat, 
and  other  days,  when  the  clouds  closed  over 
the  plains,  and  the  humid  air  was  too  heavy 
to  breathe.  But  still  the  corn  flourished, 
rustling  in  the  warm  winds  that  blow  forever 
across  the  rolling  prairies,  and  ripened  fast  against 
the  time  when  it  should  be  hauled  to  the  dis- 
tilleries along  the  placid  Illinois  or  stored  in  long 
cribs  to  await  the  ever-expected  rise  in  the  grain 
market  at  Chicago.  Viewed  from  some  impossible 
altitude,  the  great,  green  corn  fields  were  broken 
here  and  there  by  smaller  fields  of  wheat,  in  which 
some  venturesome  farmer  reaped  a  little  crop  hard- 
ly indigenous  to  that  black  soil,  and  to  the  east- 
ward, over  the  broad  pastures  of  virgin  prairie, 
blocky  cattle  browsed  and  fattened  at  their  leisure. 
The  mud  roads  lay  deep  in  powdered  dust,  the 
whole  land  droned  in  the  full  tide  of  warm  sum- 
mer life,  and  men  everywhere  were  glad,  like  the 
235 


236  The  13  th   District 

insects  that  made  the  throbbing  air  vocal  with  their 
endless  shrilling,  like  the  cattle  that  huddled 
through  the  long  afternoons  in  the  shade  of  some 
wind-break  of  slender  young  trees,  like  the  corn 
itself  forever  glinting  in  the  sun. 

Of  all  the  thousands  of  people,  happy  as  the  sum- 
mer in  their  toil,  there  was  none  who  would  have 
ascribed  his  happiness  to  the  government  under 
which  he  lived.  Few  of  them,  indeed,  at  that 
busy  season  took  any  interest  in  their  government. 
Later  on  in  the  fall,  when  the  summer  was  over  and 
the  fields  but  bare  ground,  spiked  with  short- 
pointed  stalks,  when  the  corn  and  the  cattle  had 
been  shipped  to  Chicago;  in  the  days  when  the 
darkness  and  the  rain  would  come,  they  would 
think  of  government,  perhaps  become  excited  about 
it.  But  now,  all  over  the  Thirteenth  Congressional 
District,  a  few  men  in  each  county  seat  were  gratui- 
tously attending  to  government  for  them,  plotting 
and  scheming  to  place  certain  names  on  the  ballot, 
confident  in  the  knowledge  that  in  November  the 
people  would  divide  themselves  arbitrarily  into  par- 
ties, and  go  through  the  empty  formality  of  ratify- 
ing the  selections  that  would  result  from  all  their 
manoeuvers  and  machinations.  Thus  the  business 
of  the  people's  government  is  carried  on. 

In  Grand  Prairie,  Garwood,  troubled  and  afraid, 
knew  that  in  each  of  the  seven  counties  that  com- 
prised his  district  there  were  little  cliques  of  men 
to  whom  this  business  of  carrying  on  the  people's 
government  was  somehow,  though  no  one  could 
tell  just  how,  entrusted.    If  he  could  get  enough  of 


In  Convention  Assembled      237 

these  men  to  think,  or  at  least  to  say  that  he  should 
go  back  to  Congress,  they  would  choose  certain  of 
their  followers  as  delegates,  and  these  would  name 
him.  In  all  that  great  fertile  land,  in  those  seven 
counties,  out  of  two  hundred  thousand  people  it  was 
not  even  necessary  that  he  secure  the  eighty-three 
who  would  make  a  majority  of  the  delegates  to  the 
congressional  convention;  it  was  only  necessary 
that  he  secure  half  a  dozen  men,  for  these  half 
dozen  would  name  the  delegates  who  would  express 
the  wishes  of  those  two  hundred  thousand  people. 
And  not  only  this,  but  this  handful  of  men  would 
thus  choose  the  other  officers  of  all  those  two  hun-  , 
dred  thousand  individuals.  They  were  men  who'^'"^^  • 
did  not  especially  have  at  heart  the  interests  of  the 
people,  even  of  that  portion  of  the  people  known 
as  the  "party"  they  represented.  They  had  only 
their  own  interests  at  heart,  and  they  conducted - 
the  people's  government  for  what  they  might  them- 
selves get  out  of  it  in  money  and  in  power.  Behind  i 
them,  it  is  true,  were  oftentimes  men  who  were 
either  too  respectable  or  too  unpopular  to  engage  \ 
in  politics;  men  who  controlled  large  affairs,  but  •, 
these  also  were  interested  in  nothing  but  their  own 
business  and  the  making  of  money.  The  happiness 
of  the  people  was  not  for  them  to  consider;  fortun-  - 
ately,  that  was  left  to  the  winds;  to  the  rolling 
prairies;  to  the  sight  of  the  broad  fields  and  the 
cattle  huddling  at  noon-time  in  the  shade;  to  the 
songs  of  birds,  and  insects,  and  children ;  to  the  sun 
and  the  glint  of  the  sunlight  on  the  corn.  When 
the  selection  of  candidates  had  been  made,  and  the 


238  The  13  th  District 

choice  was  between  two  men,  Garwood  knew  that 
there  were  enough  of  those  two  hundred  thousand 
ready  to  fight  for  the  word  by  which  his  party  was 
called  to  place  the  name  of  its  candidate  on  the 
pay-roll  of  congressmen. 

The  few  men  who  would  thus  tell  the  people 
whom  to  choose  were  subject  to  influences.  The 
question  was :  what  influence  to  employ  in  each  par- 
ticular instance.  There  was  but  one  other  consider- 
ation; these  men  were  likely  at  times  to  lose  their 
occult  power,  and  to  be  superseded  by  other  men; 
so  that  it  was  necessary  to  know  just  who  was  the 
man  in  each  county  then  in  control.  For  instance, 
in  Polk  County,  Rankin  had  been  this  man,  for 
so  long  a  time  in  fact  that  his  power  had  extended 
to  other  counties.  But  Rankin's  power  had  been  in 
part  destroyed ;  there  were  now  two  men  in  Polk 
County  to  be  considered — Rankin  and  Pusey.  Un- 
less one  could  get  both,  it  was  necessary  to  make  a 
choice  between  them.  But  it  was  impossible  to  get 
both,  and  it  was  a  delicate  matter  selecting  one  or 
the  other. 

Had  Garwood  been  a  man  with  a  genius  for  de- 
tails and  organization,  or  even  possessed  of  an  un- 
tiring patience,  he  would  have  known  just  what 
men  in  each  county  were  at  any  given  time 
doing  the  governing  for  the  people  of  that 
county.  That  would  have  required  tact  and  perse- 
verance; it  would  have  entailed  an  endless  amount 
of  letter-writing  and  consulting,  and  this,  amid  all 
the  fascinations  of  his  new  life  at  Washington,  was 
irksome  to  him.    He  knew  now  too  late,  the  right 


In  Convention  Assembled      239 

man  in  his  own  county.  As  to  the  other  counties, 
he  must  still  lean  on  Rankin  and  trust  him.  So  the 
choice  as  between  Pusey  and  Rankin  seemed  to  be 
decided  for  him. 

Rankin  came  back  to  Grand  Prairie  at  the  end  of 
the  week,  and  an  announcement  he  then  made  was 
sufficient  to  excite  all  the  m,en  in  the  Thirteenth 
District  who  at  that  time  were  interested  in  gov- 
ernment. 


VIT 


RANKIN'S  announcement  was  a  simple  one, 
and  was  made  without  flourish.  It  was 
merely  that  at  a  meeting  of  the  congressional 
committee  held  the  day  before  at  Lincoln,  a 
congressional  convention  had  been  called  to  as- 
semble at  Pekin ,  on  Tuesday  of  the  following 
week.  The  announcement  was  a  surprise  to 
none  more  than  to  Garwood  himself.  It 
reached  him  in  the  mysterious  way  that  news 
spreads,  on  his  way  down  town  Monday  morning, 
and,  when  it  was  mentioned  to  him  he  smiled 
blandly  with  his  old  cunning  as  if  he  had  known 
it  all  along.  He  hastened  to  his  office,  and  waited 
there  half  an  hour  before  Rankin  appeared,  per- 
spiring, florid  and  expanding  with  self-satisfaction. 

"Well,"  he  said,  standing  an  instant  in  the  door- 
way and  fanning  his  streaming  face  with  his  hat, 
"think  you'd  lost  me?" 

Garwood,  not  having  had  time  to  estimate  the 
poHtical  effect  of  the  move  Rankin  had  made,  and 
somewhat  annoyed  with  Rankin  for  not  having 
told  him  of  his  intentions  before  executing  them, 
took  refuge  in  the  congressional  demeanor  he  had 
studied  from  numerous  impressive  models  in  the 
District  of  Columbia. 

'T  have  been  awaiting  a  conference  with  you," 
he  said.  He  had  also  learned  at  Washington  to  call 
240 


In  Convention  Assembled      241 

meetings  where  there  was  to  be  political  scheming, 
"conferences." 

"Well,"  said  Rankin,  dropping  his  wide  hat  to 
the  floor,  "I  thought  I'd  see  if  it  could  be  done  first, 
and  tell  you  afterwards." 

"So  I  assumed." 

Rankin  glanced  at  Garwood  somewhat  uneasily. 
He  did  not  like  the  new  mood  of  Garwood. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,"  he  assured  him,  "wait  till  I 
tell  you.  I  knew  that  Sprague  and  Pusey  were  at 
work,  but  they  needed  time.  Our  play  was  to  force 
their  hand  at  once.  What  we  want  is  a  speedy  con- 
vention so — what?" 

"I  said  I  was  not  so  sure  of  that,"  Garwood  re- 
peated. 

"Well,  I  say  yes,"  said  Rankin.  "Man  alive! 
They'll  skin  us;  give  'em  time.  Anyway  Friday 
night  I  wired  Sam  AlcKimmon  and  Jim  O'Malley 
and  Joe  Hale  to  meet  me  Saturday  at  Lincoln.  I 
went  over  and  there  they  were.  I  told  'em  where 
we  was  at,  an'  what  Sprague  'as  doin'.  They  agreed 
'ith  me  that  we'd  ought  to  get  a  move  on,  an'  we 
decided  quick — convention  fer  a  week  from  to-mor- 
row at  Pekin — Joe  insisted  on  that.  I  wired  Hef- 
fron  an'  Schmidt  an'  Carman  las'  night.  It's  fixed 
now.    What  do  you  think  of  it  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know ;  if  I  had  had—" 

"Well,  you'll  say  it's  the  thing  when  I  show  you 
this.  Look'e  here."  He  drew  a  crumpled  telegram 
from  his  pocket,  struck  it  open  with  the  back  of 
his  fingers,  and  handed  it  to  Garwood.  "Look  at 
that!" 


242  The  I  3  th   District 

Garwood  read  it.  It  was  a  telegram  from  George 
Schmidt,  the  committee-man  from  Moultrie 
County,  voicing  an  indignant  protest. 

"It's  all  right,  I  reckon.  Heh?"  Rankin  smiled 
triumphantly.    "Maybe  ol'  Con  hain't  mad!" 

For  the  first  time  Garwood  was  reassured.  If 
Sprague  was  mad,  it  must  be  all  right,  proceeding 
on  the  common  assumption  that  anything  which 
harasses  the  enemy  is  a  point  gained. 

"I  don't  know  but  you're  right,"  he  said,  relent- 
ingly. 

"Ain't  I?"  said  Rankin,  smiling  more  compla- 
cently and  triumphantly  than  ever,  "Reckon  they 
won't  ketch  your  Uncle  James  nappin'  more'n 
onct,  even  if  the  weather  is  hot." 

And  as  if  he  had  just  reminded  himself  of  the 
heat  he  stripped  off  his  coat,  hung  it  over  the  back 
of  his  chair  and  pulled  his  shirt  sleeves  far  up  his 
hairy  arms  for  greater  comfort. 

"Why  did  you  select  Pekin?"  Garwood  asked, 
presently. 

"'Cause  it's  fartherest  from  Sullivan  fer  one 
thing,  an'  then  Joe  Hale  wanted  to  get  it  fer  his 
home  town.  He  was  a  little  skeery  at  first.  I  had 
to  fix  him — promised  him  you'd  have  him  appointed 
postmaster.  You'll  have  to  do  it."  Garwood 
scowled  the  scowl  that  comes  when  the  vexed  ques- 
tion of  patronage  is  mooted,  but  said: 

"I'll  take  care  of  him." 

"Yes,"  Rankin  went  on,  "you'll  have  to.  He 
says  he  can  land  a  delegation  from  Tazewell  all 
right.       Their     county     convention's      Thursday, 


In  Convention  Assembled      243 

There's  thirty  votes  to  start  on.  O'Malley  says  Lo- 
gan's all  right,  too.  They'll  have  a  mass  conven- 
tion called  fer  Saturday.  That'll  be  twenty-four 
more — fifty-four."  Rankin  leaned  over  to  Gar- 
wood's desk  and  began  to  make  figures  on  an  old 
envelope.  "Fifty-four,"  he  repeated.  "Mac  thinks 
he  can  fetch  up  his  county;  that's  eighteen  more — 
seventy-two  in  all.  With  our  twenty-two  here 
that'll  make — le's  see,  two'n'  two's  four — seven  an' 
two's  nine — ninety-four.  An'  you're  nominated,  ol' 
man." 

And  Rankin,  dropping  his  pencil,  slapped  Gar- 
wood on  the  knee,  though  an  instant  later  he  re- 
gretted having  taken  what  once  would  not  have 
been  a  liberty,  for  he  had  a  sudden  intuition  that 
a  new  divinity  now  hedged  his  congressman.  But 
he  speedily  covered  his  slight  confusion  by  proceed- 
ing: 

"An'  now  we've  only  got  a  week  to  get  ready  in, 
but  a  week's  as  good  as  a  month.  We  must  cinch 
the  thing  in  Tazewell  an'  Logan  an'  Mason.  That 
end  o'  the  district's  our's  naturally.  We'll  give  'em 
Piatt  an'  DeWitt ;  an'  Moultrie — course  they've  got 
that  coopered  up  already." 

Garwood  placed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together 
and  knitted  his  brows  in  thought.  Rankin  dutifully 
awaited  the  result  of  his  thinking. 

"Don't  you  think,"  the  congressman  said  pres- 
ently, "that  we  could  gain  a  few  more  votes  here 
in  Polk?  Perhaps,  with  certain  concessions,  Pusey 
might — " 


244  The  13  th  District 

Rankin  did  not,  however,  dutifully  await  the  full 
expression  of  the  thought. 

"Concessions  hell!"  he  cried.  "Concessions  to 
that  little  whelp?  Well,  I  should  say  not!  We'll 
lick  him,  an'  then  ram  it  down  his  throat !" 

Rankin  breathed  heavily  as  he  exploded  this  im- 
perfect figure. 

"We  want  to  clean  that  little  mess  up  right  now, 
onct  an'  fer  all,"  he  added,  when  he  could  get 
breath  again.  He  was  puffing  in  a  fat,  angry  way. 
"No,  sir,  you'n  I'll  take  a  run  down  to  Havana,  find 
Zeph  Bailey,  an'  see  if  we  can't  sew  up  them  eigh- 
teen votes  from  Mason.  Then  we'll  hike  up  to  Pe- 
kin  an'  attend  Joe  Hale's  convention.  Then  on 
Saturday  we'll  drop  into  Lincoln,  an'  you'll  make 
'em  a  speech,  I'll  also  make  a  few  well  chosen 
remarks  myself — at  the  other  end  o'  the  hall.  We'll 
concentrate  on  them  counties.  Course,  it  won't  do 
no  harm  to  make  a  try  in  DeWitt  an'  Piatt,  but  I 
don't  look  fer  much  there.  We  only  need  eighty- 
three  votes ;  we've  got  ninety- four  in  sight — ef  none 
of  'em  gets  away." 

Rankin  had  a  faculty  of  reassuring  himself,  and 
the  faculty  was  somehow  stimulated  after  the  first 
pangs  of  defeat  had  been  soothed. 

"How  sure  is  Tazewell?"  Garwood  inquired,  still 
with  his  finger  tips  together,  his  eyes  half  closed  in 
cogitation. 

"Well,  now,  Joe  Hale  hain't  a  goin'  to  let  that 
post-office  get  away  from  him.  You  can  count  on 
them  thirty  sure.  Jim  thinks  Logan's  all  right — • 
they  like  you  over  there,  you  know,  an'  Mac  says 


In  Convention  Assembled      245 

Mason'll  be  solid.  But  we'll  have  to  watch  that. 
We  may  lose  out  there,  but  I  don't  think  so — aw, 
hell,  no !"  Rankin  refused  to  credit  his  own  fears. 
"We'll  get  'em.    Damn  it,  we  must  get  'em!" 

He  struck  his  own  knee  this  time,  and  with  his 
fist. 

This  hasty  calling  of  the  convention  was  like  a 
bomb-shell  in  the  camp  of  the  Sprague  following, 
to  use  one  of  the  war-like  expressions  that  are  trite 
in  our  sanguinary  partisan  politics.  Pusey  admit- 
ted as  much  when  he  wrote  daily  editorials  denounc- 
ing the  committee  and  what  he  called  the  snap 
judgment  it  had  taken.  The  announcement,  too, 
was  not  received  with  much  favor  in  the  other 
counties,  for  the  time  in  which  to  call  their  county 
conventions  was  short,  and  the  politicians  were  put 
to  much  trouble  to  form  the  combinations  on  which 
their  own  interests  depended.  But  the  four  men 
who  had  met  at  Lincoln  were  a  majority  of  the 
committee,  and  their  action  was  conclusive.  The 
other  members,  those  from  DeWitt,  Piatt  and 
Moultrie  Counties  had,  like  the  rest,  been  notified 
by  telegraph,  and  even  by  mail,  but  Rankin  had 
taken  care  to  send  their  telegrams  at  a  late  hour, 
knowing  that  the  telegraph  offices  in  the  little 
towns  were  not  open  at  night.  Their  letters  of 
course  reached  them  the  next  day — too  late  for 
them  to  get  to  the  meeting. 

And  so  over  the  district,  the  preparations  for  the 
county  conventions  went  forward.  Rankin  and 
Garwood  made  their  trip,  and  made  their  speeches, 
and  when  they  came  home  Rankin  claimed  solid 


246  The  13  th  District 

delegations  from  Logan,  Mason  and  Tazewell. 
The  delegation  from  Tazewell  was  instructed  for 
Garwood ;  those  from  Logan  and  Mason  were 
not.  Rankin  also  claimed  votes  in  the  DeWitt 
and  Piatt  delegations,  and  formulated  such  an 
elaborate  equation  that  he  was  able  to  demon- 
strate to  any  one  that  Garwood  would  be  nomi- 
nated on  the  first  ballot,  and  with  votes  to  spare. 

Pusey  made  no  claims  in  his  newspaper.  He 
was  ever  shrewd  enough  and  shifty  enough  not  to 
do  anything  openly  that  could  stultify  him  in  the 
future,  but  Rankin  said  that  telegrams  were  con- 
stantly passing  between  him  and  Sprague.  Gar- 
wood did  not  have  his  interview  with  the  little 
editor.  He  had  thought  of  it,  and  had  even 
broached  the  subject  to  Rankin  again,  but  Rankin 
was  implacable  in  his  hatred  and  vigorously  op- 
posed any  such  movement.  In  the  strenuous  fight 
that  was  coming  on,  and  even  then  begun,  he  dis- 
played again  all  of  his  old  commanding  resolution, 
and  Garwood  fell  under  the  spell  of  his  strong  will. 

"They'll  find  Jim  Rankin  a  pretty  active 
corpse!"  he  was  continually  saying  to  Garwood. 

So  the  week  passed,  the  county  conventions 
were  all  held,  and  then  a  silence  brooded  over 
the  political  camps  in  the  district  as  the  delega- 
tions, like  the  mobilized  detachments  of  an  army, 
waited  for  the  time  to  come  when  they  should 
move  on  Pekin  and  begin  the  great  battle. 


VIII 


EMILY'S  baby  had  had  his  morning  bath,  and 
after  a  long  wrestle  had  at  last  fallen  asleep, 
his  little  lips  sucking  automatically  in  his 
dreams,  while  her  father,  after  a  struggle  almost 
as  wearing,  had  been  induced  to  go  for  a  morning 
walk  before  the  heat  of  what  promised  to  be  a 
sultry  day  should  rise  with  the  mounting  sun. 
She  had  carried  a  tray  with  Jerome's  break- 
fast up  to  him,  and  when  he  had  eaten  it  he  had 
rolled  over  and  resumed  his  snoring,  made 
more  gross  by  the  dissipations  of  his  campaigning 
the  night  before;  and  now  she  drew  a  long 
sigh  as  she  sank  into  her  chair  on  the  veran- 
da to  think  that  a  few  moments  of  rest  might  be 
hers  at  last.  She  rocked  vigorously,  as  though  the 
mere  physical  exercise  might  rest  her  fatigued 
limbs ;  the  slow  motion  with  which  she  lifted  a  stray 
lock  from  her  brow  and  fastened  it  back  in  her  hair 
told  how  weary  she  was.  In  her  lap  lay  a  letter 
which  the  postman  had  just  handed  her.  It  was  a 
large,  square  envelope,  of  gray  paper,  the  texture 
and  tone  of  which  would  have  told  that  it  was  for- 
eign, even  if  the  German  stamp  had  not  already 
put  that  fact  in  evidence,  Emily  had  recognized 
the  anglicized  writing  in  which  it  was  addressed 
as  that  of  Dade;  and  the  post-mark  told  that  the 
travels  of  the  Emersons  had  led  them  once  more 
247 


248  The  13  th   District 

to  Wiesbaden.  Emily  allowed  the  letter  to  lie  a 
moment  unopened  in  her  lap,  partly  from  inertia, 
more,  perhaps,  from  a  love  of  anticipating  the 
pleasure  its  reading  would  give  her.  The  breaks 
in  the  vast  monotony  of  her  life  were  so  few  that 
she  disliked  to  have  them  too  quickly  over. 

And  then,  she  found  a  charm  in  the  romantic 
spell  anything  that  comes  out  of  the  Old  World 
still  weaves  for  us  of  the  New.  She  loved  to  picture 
Dade,  in  some  smart  Parisian  gown — the  very 
thought  of  which  brought  back  to  her  Dade's  way 
of  calling  things,  especially  her  own  dresses, 
"chic" — escaping  from  her  hypochondriacal 
mother,  now  with  petulant  disrespect,  now  with 
gushes  of  afifection,  to  wander  with  some  young 
man  down  wide  avenues,  shaded  with  lindens. 
Sometimes  she  pictured  the  young  man  in  civilian 
dress,  but  this  morning  he  wore  ,the  uniform  of  the 
German  army.  She  could  see  Dade,  trailing  her 
brilliant  parasol  over  her  shoulder,  looking  up  into 
his  face,  and  speaking  to  him  in  her  melodious 
French — no,  she  corrected  her  little  drama,  it 
would  be  this  time  in  her  rich  German  which  she 
had  affected  to  prefer  to  French.  Some  day, 
she  was  sure,  these  light  and  transient  affairs 
would  end  seriously  for  Dade,  so  seriously 
that  she  would  find  herself  enthroned  over  the 
stately  household  of  some  old  German  castle  with 
a  titled  military  husband.  How  many  years  would 
then  elapse  before  Dade  would  be  back  in  Grand 
Prairie,  with  the  air  of  the  grande  dame,  lifting 
her  lorgnette  in  the  foreign  way  that  would  come 


In  Convention  Assembled      249 

so  naturally  to  her?  Would  she  grow  matronly 
and  have  some  yellow-haired,  outlandish  son  with 
her?    Would— 

She  heard  a  noise  upstairs,  and  turned  her  head 
slightly,  growing  rigid  as  she  listened  for  the  warn- 
ing cry  of  the  baby.  She  waited,  but  no  fur- 
ther sound  came,  and  she  lay  back  to  resume  her 
dream.  But  it  had  been  broken,  the  thought  of  the 
baby  had  brought  her  back  across  all  the  interven- 
ing seas,  back  to  Grand  Prairie  and  her  daily  duties 
there.  She  sighed,  and  languidly  tore  open  the 
letter. 

When  Emily  had  read  the  first  of  the  many  pages 
that  made  up  the  letter  she  laid  it  down  in  her  lap 
to  grasp  to  the  uttermost  the  striking  import  of  its 
tidings  and  there  spread  over  her  tired  face  a  new 
smile,  born  of  the  pleasure  women  find  in  that  clair- 
voyance with  which  they  like  to  think  themselves 
gifted  in  affairs  of  the  heart — Dade  was  engaged! 
Her  morning  dream  of  the  moment  before  had  been 
prophetic;  it  was  coming  true! 

Dade  wrote  of  him  in  her  highest  vein  of  esctasy. 
'He  was  not  an  officer,  though  he  had  been,  but  he 
was  noble,  and  Emily  gathered  that  he  was  in  poli- 
tics, though  Dade  did  not  put  it  that  way.  A  Prus- 
sian he  was,  with  the  sounding  name  of  Baron 
Wolf  von  Waldenburg.  He  was  not  rich,  though 
he  had  some  means,  but  what  he  lacked  in  the  aris- 
tocracy of  his  money  he  made  up  by  the  aristocracy 
of  his  lineage — an  old  family,  with  a  seat  near 
Spandau,  and  a  house  in  Berlin,  where  Dade  and  he 
would  live.    They  would  have  to  economize,  Dade 


250  The  13  th  District 

wrote,  and  try  to  get  along  somehow  with  few  ser- 
vants, not  more  than  six.  Their  "menage"  would  be 
humble,  but  Berlin  was  the  dearest  place  to  live. 
The  baron  was  in  the  government  there,  and  of 
course  they  would  have  the  entree  to  the  court  cir- 
cle. Dear  mamma  would  live  with  them.  Dade 
appealed  to  Emily  to  know  if  it  was  not  altogether 
too  lovely,  and  as  for  the  baron  she  was  sure  that 
Emily  could  not  help  loving  him,  he  was  the  dear- 
est little  man  that  ever  lived ;  so  proud,  so  haughty, 
but  with  such  distinguished  manners. 

"And  isn't  it  funny,"  Dade  raged  on,  "to  think 
that  we  both  should  marry  public  men?  I  know 
Mr.  Garwood  would  like  him — they  would  admire 
each  other's  brains  anyway.  And  you  must  come 
and  visit  us  when  we  are  at  home  in  Berlin — 
doesn't  it  sound  fine?  Just  think!  While  you  are 
enjoying  the  gay  life  of  your  capital  I  shall  be 
enjoying  the  gay  life  of  mine!  Don't  you  remem- 
ber how  we  always  used  to  say — " 

The  words  somehow  struck  Emily's  heart  cold. 
"While  you  are  enjoying  the  gay  life  of  your  capi- 
tal— "  It  was  not  the  expatriation  which  Dade  so 
frankly  confessed  that  struck  her  at  first,  though  a 
sense  of  that  came  after  her  own  personal  pang  had 
been  absorbed  in  the  habitual  resignation  with 
which  she  accepted  the  life  that  was  so  far  from 
all  her  girlish  dreams. 

The  letter  became  somewhat  more  coherent  as 
it  progressed.  Dade  explained  that  they  had  come 
to  Wiesbaden,  not  this  time  for  her  mother's 
health  so  much  as  for  her  own.     Her  physicians 


In  Convention  Assembled      251 

had  advised  it;  she  was  run  down,  and  as  she  was 
to  be  married  in  the  fall,  the  baron  wished  her  to 
be  in  good  health.  They  might  run  over  to  Amer- 
ica before  the  wedding;  she  wasn't  sure;  it  would 
all  depend.  And  they  had  not  decided  yet  where 
they  would  be  married,  certainly,  however,  not  in 
Grand  Prairie — there  would  be  no  place  there  for 
the  baron  to  stay. 

Emily  finished  the  letter,  and  laid  it  in  her  lap 
with  another  sigh.  She  was  all  sighs  this  summer 
morning.  And  yet  she  could  not,  and  would  not, 
formulate  to  herself  the  reason  why  she  sighed. 
She  might  with  impunity  have  compared  her 
own  life  with  Dade's,  for  it  was  not  the  life 
that  Dade  was  leading  for  which  she  sighed  that 
summer.  Once,  perhaps,  in  looking  from  afar 
upon  the  society  life  of  the  cities  as  it  was  reflected 
in  the  newspapers,  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  she 
might  be  happy  there.  She  recalled  having  ex- 
pressed something  of  this  to  a  man  from  Chicago 
who  had  spent  a  day  with  her  father.  He  was  a 
lawyer,  with  a  large  practice,  but  one  who  never- 
theless gave  much  of  his  fine  talents  to  the  poor, 
the  forgotten,  and  the  despised.  For  this  he  was 
called  eccentric,  sometimes  crazy,  often  a  socialist. 
She  remembered  him  always  as  he  sat  in  her  fath- 
er's library  that  evening  after  dinner — he  had  come 
down  on  some  business  relating  to  the  bank,  and 
had  dined  wuth  her  father.  She  remembered  his 
strong  face ;  a  face  wondrous  in  its  sympathy,  won- 
drous in  its  kindness,  wondrous  in  its  sadness.    It 


252  The   13th   District 

seemed  to  reflect  not  only  all  the  sorrow  he  had 
seen,  but  all  the  sorrow  he  had  perceived  in  his 
deep,  penetrating-  knowledge  of  life.  She  always 
pictured  him  as  he  sat  in  the  library  that  evening. 
She  had  expressed,  in  her  girlish  way,  something 
of  her  wish  for  a  larger  life,  by  which  she  then 
meant  life  in  a  larger  place,  and  never  could  she 
forget  the  lift  of  his  gentle  eyes,  or  the  smile  that 
came  to  his  weary  visage  as  he  said : 

"Grand  Prairie  is  as  big  as  Chicago,  and  a  coun- 
try cross-roads  as  big  as  either." 

She  had  pondered  a  long  time  on  those  words 
and  it  was  long  before  she  had  won  an  inkling  of 
their  meaning.  And  then  she  had  met  Garwood, 
and  it  had  seemed  that  at  last  she  had  found  the 
way  to  life.  She  had  felt  that  Jerome  was  designed 
for  a  big  work  in  the  world,  and  the  hand  of  des- 
tiny had  been  plainly  apparent  when  he  was  sent  to 
Congress.  She  had  dreamed  of  being  by  his  side  in 
Washington,  a  help  and  an  inspiration  in  the  mighty 
things  he  was  to  do.  Now  he  had  been  one  term 
in  Congress,  and  all  that  his  life  held  seemed  to  be 
an  endless  scheming  and  striving  to  remain  there,; 
the  great  work  he  was  to  do  for  others  altogether 
lost  sight  of  in  the  great  struggle  for  mere  exist- 
ence in  the  place  he  had  won.  And  for  her  there 
was  the  same  old  life  at  home,  changed  only  by 
the  addition  of  new  cares,  of  new  responsibilities, 
the  conditions  ever  growing  harder,  her  perplexi- 
ties ever  deepening. 

But  she  put  Dade's  letter  back  In  its  square  en- 
velope, and  went  in.     It  was  growing  warm  out- 


In  Convention  Assembled      253 

doors.  Her  father  had  come  home  tired  from  his 
walk ;  the  baby  had  awakened  cross  with  the  heat ; 
Jerome  had  got  up  and  was  calling  her  to  serve 
him  in  his  dressing,  and  to  pack  his  valise  for  his 
trip  to  the  Pekin  convention. 


IX 


GARWOOD,  with  Rankin  and  his  other  more 
intimate  supporters  started  for  Pekin  on 
Monday  morning  in  order  to  be  on  the 
ground  early.  They  found  themselves  none  too 
soon,  for  the  delegates  had  already  begun  to  gather, 
and  by  night  the  old  town  was  fully  invested  by 
politicians.  They  strolled  in  twos  and  threes  under 
their  serious  hat  brims,  along  the  shaded  streets 
where  the  wonted  quiet  of  the  town  deepened  to  a 
repose  in  which  they  best  could  whisper  their  little 
schemes.  They  were  to  be  found  in  noisy  groups 
in  the  saloons  and  bar-rooms,  but  as  the  chiefs  and 
leaders  were  at  the  hotel,  there  the  interest  cen- 
tered. Many  of  the  visitors,  taking  chairs  from  the 
office  of  the  hotel,  where  the  lights,  burning  under 
the  low  ceiling,  made  the  heat  unbearable,  placed 
them  along  the  curb,  and  then  all  through  the 
summer  evening,  they  tilted  back  and  talked,  their 
cigars  glowing  in  the  darkness,  their  laughter  now 
and  then  breaking  on  the  ears  of  the  youths  and 
maidens  who  strolled  by.  Upstairs  in  one  of  the 
rooms  of  the  hotel,  a  poker  game  was  in  progress; 
in  another,  Garwood  held  a  levee  amid  a  thick  cloud 
of  cigar  smoke,  for  which  the  open  box  of  cigars 
on  the  table  provided  a  constant  fuel.  Sprague  also 
had  his  headquarters,  and  in  another  room  the 
congressional  committee  was  in  session. 
254 


In  Convention  Assembled      255 

The  room  was  strewn  with  paper  and  the  ashes 
of  cigars,  and  there  was  a  holocaust  of  insects  on 
the  floor  under  the  oil  lamps,  and  though  the  morn- 
ing was  luminous  and  still  when  the  meeting  ended 
the  tired  and  sleepy  members  were  glad  of  the 
breath  of  its  sweet  air.  The  dawn  had  come  long 
before.  Now  the  sun  was  mounting  in  the  east, 
flashing  his  heat  in  trembling  rays  down  on  the 
green  corn  fields.  The  sky  was  burnished  clean  of 
clouds,  and  glistened  like  metal.  Far  down  in  the 
west,  where  the  mists  had  long  since  rolled  away 
from  the  Illinois  River,  was  a  low  lying  hill  of  cloud, 
dazzling  white  and  moveless,  resting  on  the  hori- 
zon. As  the  committee-men,  spent  with  a  night  of 
wrangling,  gazed  up  into  that  morning  heaven  they 
knew  how  hot  the  day  would  be,  a  day  hot  as  no 
day  other  than  a  convention  day  ever  is. 

Rankin,  as  he  stood  on  the  hotel  steps  and  gazed, 
removed  his  hat,  and  wiped  his  brow  with  a  ges- 
ture of  weariness  unusual  to  him.  The  long  strain 
of  the  battle  would  soon  begin.  Would  it  end  as 
that  other  battle  two  years  ago  had  ended?  He 
had  waited  long  for  his  reward,  he  must  make  one 
more  winning  fight  to  vindicate  his  right  to  it.  It 
meant  much  to  him — four  years  in  the  post-oflice 
at  Grand  Prairie — he  could  rest  when  he  sat  down 
in  that  envied  chair.  He  would  move  the  desk  into 
the  window  on  Main  Street,  and  then  all  his  friends, 
and,  what  was  sweeter  still,  all  his  enemies  could 
see  him  sitting  there.  With  this  dream  his  habitual 
cheerfulness  came  back  to  him,  and  he  turned  and 
went  inside  with  a  quicker  step.    There  was  still 


256  The  I  3  th   District 

work  for  him  to  do.  The  committee  was  to  meet 
again  at  half-past  nine  to  complete  the  little  details, 
and,  besides,  he  must  prepare  a  program  to  place 
in  the  hands  of  the  temporary  chairman;  a  pro- 
gram on  which  would  be  written  just  what  motions 
were  to  be  made,  who  was  to  move  a  committee 
on  credentials  and  on  permanent  organization,  and 
who  were  to  be  appointed  on  these  committees,  and 
then  who  was  to  nominate  the  permanent  chairman, 
and  so  forth.  Thus  it  is  by  such  forethoughtful 
organization  that  one  chases  a  thousand,  and  two 
j  put  ten  thousand  to  flight.  Rankin  went  to  his  room 
^  and  with  a  window  open  to  lure  any  breeze  that 
might  come  with  the  morning,  he  wrote  out  his 
schedule  of  the  people's  wishes. 

Garwood  lay  snoring  in  one  of  the  two  beds  the 
room  contained.  He  had  remained  in  his  headquar- 
ters until  they  had  been  emptied,  then  he  had  joined 
in  a  poker  game ;  an  hour  before  Rankin  entered  he 
had  fallen  heavily  into  bed. 

There,  in  the  morning,  Rankin  worked  on  while 
Garwood  slept.  He  thought  several  times,  scratch- 
ing his  head  in  dilemma,  of  awaking  his  leader, 
but  he  forbore  and  let  him  sleep.  At  last  he  fin- 
ished, and  then  lay  down  himself,  without  undress- 
ing, to  get  what  rest  he  could. 

He  slept  lightly  for  a  time,  then  awoke.  The 
sun,  already  sickeningly  hot,  was  pouring  through 
the  open  window,  he  was  bathed  in  perspiration, 
the  heat  was  insufferable. 

Garwood  roused.  While  he  was  washing  and 
shaving,  he  said : 


In  Convention  Assembled      257 

"Will  Bailey  preside?" 

"Yes — we  put  it  through  after  a  fight." 

"He'll  do." 

"Yes,"  answered  Rankin,  spluttering  in  the  water 
he  lifted  to  his  face  in  the  bowl  of  his  two  palms, 
"he's  got  nerve." 

He  groped  for  a  towel. 

"Did  you  write  the  resolutions?"  he  asked  Gar- 
wood. 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  congressman;  "I  must  do 
that " 


X 


THE  convention  was  to  meet  at  ten  o'clock,  but 
at  that  hour,  while  the  hotel  was  left  deso- 
late, the  Circuit  Court  room  in  the  old  brick 
court  house  where  the  convention  was  to  sit,  was 
still  empty,  and  scarcely  divested  of  any  of  its  solem- 
nity by  the  chairs  that  had  been  set  in  order  for  the 
accommodation  of  the  representatives  of  the  people 
who  were  to  deliberate  there.  For  half  an  hour  the 
delegates  had  been  gathering  at  the  somber  build- 
ing, and  now  clustered  in  groups  in  the  historic  por- 
tico that  had  witnessed,  so  many  years  before,  one 
of  the  great  debates  between  Lincoln  and  Douglas. 
The  delegates  found  the  shade  grateful,  and  leaned 
against  the  gray  stone  columns  smoking  the  cigars 
which  the  candidates  had  supplied  with  such  prodi- 
gal generosity.  With  them  were  many  spectators 
and  the  curiosity  of  these  was  hardly  larger  than 
the  curiosity  of  the  delegates,  who,  though  they  had 
all  the  power  in  their  hands,  could  only  speculate, 
not  as  to  what  they  would  do  with  the  power,  but 
what  would  be  done  with  it  for  them,  and  they 
awaited  the  coming  of  their  leaders  with  a  calm, 
almost  amusing  submission  to  their  desires  and 
designs. 

The  morning  advanced,  and  with  it  the  heat  in- 
creased, until  at  length  some  of  the  delegates,  on 
whom  the  deputed  dignity  of  the  people  sat  with 

258 


In  Convention  Assembled      259 

such  weight  that  they  wished  to  feel  some  of  its 
importance  by  taking  their  seats,  entered  the  court 
room.  There  they  resumed  their  curious  specula- 
tions as  to  whether  Garwood  or  Sprague  would  be 
nominated,  awaiting  the  advent  of  some  hand 
strong  enough  to  gather  them  all  together  and  mold 
them  to  its  own  purposes. 

But  at  length  and  suddenly  there  was  a  noise 
and  in  through  the  doors  poured  the  crowd  that 
had  remained  outside,  bringing  with  it  a  palpable 
breath  of  heat.  In  the  center  of  the  throng  was 
Jim  Rankin,  his  smiles  scattered  abroad  for  all. 
He  worked  his  way  with  heavy  shoulders  into  the 
court  room,  and  with  an  authoritative  stride  swung 
down  towards  the  judge's  bench  where  the  presid- 
ing officer  of  the  convention  was  to  wield  his  gavel. 

On  the  wall  the  big  clock  bearing  the  advertise- 
ment of  a  local  jeweler  judicially  ticked  away  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  before  Rankin  mounted  the 
judge's  bench.  He  had  been  sitting  meantime,  in 
the  jury  box,  whispering  to  Judge  Bailey  as  com- 
posedly as  though  the  whole  convention  was  not 
waiting  for  him  to  perform  the  last  rite  that  would 
invoke  its  political  life.  He  had  even  removed  his 
coat,  and  sat  in  his  rounded  white  shirt  sleeves, 
with  the  self-possession  of  a  judge  himself,  who 
knows  that  the  session  of  court  cannot  begin  until 
he  wills  it  and  that  none  dare  show  impatience  lest 
he  embarrass  his  cause.  But  now  and  then  some 
delegate,  showing  no  more  respect  for  Rankin  than 
the  ordinary  American  freeman  really  feels  for  a 
judge,  however,  much  custom  compels  him  to  dis- 


26o  The  13  th   District 

simulate  in  court,  would  cry:  "Get  a  move  on  you, 
Jim,"  and  at  last  Rankin  arose,  put  on  his  coat, 
whispered  a  last  word  to  Bailey,  and  mounted  the 
raised  platform  where  was  ordinarily  enthroned  the 
impersonated  authority  of  the  statute  in  such  case 
made  and  provided  and  the  whole  peace  and  dignity 
of  the  people  of  the  state  of  Illinois. 

Rankin's  figure  showed  fine  and  burly,  half  of  it 
towering  above  the  judge's  desk,  as  he  looked  over 
all  the  heads  before  him,  where,  somehow,  he  was 
determined  to  count  eighty-three  votes  for  Jerome 
B.  Garwood.  He  stood  there  huge  and  powerful 
until  something  of  his  strength  impressed  the  dele- 
gates before  him,  until  he  felt,  as  they  themselves 
felt,  a  moral  mastery  over  their  minds.  His  dig- 
nity, showing  in  the  broad  reach  of  his  heavy  shoul- 
ders, shining  from  his  sleepless  eyes,  had  in  it  all 
of  the  accumulated  fire  of  his  anger  at  the  opposi- 
tion that  had  dared  assail  him,  and  he  wished  it 
to  be  felt.  He  singled  out  Pusey,  bowed  among 
the  very  men  who  knew  Jim  Rankin  best,  for  the 
concentration  of  his  gaze.  Somewhere  he  had  got 
a  gavel,  as  it  was  supposed,  though  it  was  not  a 
gavel,  but  a  gager's  flat  mallet,  or  bung-starter, 
ironically  symbolic  of  the  real  power  that  lay  be- 
hind him,  though  no  one  there  saw  the  irony.  And 
with  this  in  his  fat  and  hairy  fist  he  gave  three 
heavy  raps. 

"The  convention  will  be  in  order,"  he  said.  The 
simple  words  were  the  consummation  of  all  the 
months  of  scheming  and  toiling  that  had  gone  be- 


In  Convention  Assembled      261 

fore  in  that  Thirteenth  District,  and  the  delegates 
insensibly  braced  under  the  idea. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  make  any  speech,"  he  began, 
and  then  paused  an  instant  before  he  added,  with 
an  intense  significance,  "at  this  stage  of  the  pro- 
ceedin's." 

Some  among  the  delegates  caught  the  threat  that 
lurked  in  the  statement. 

"But,"  Rankin  went  on,  "the  committee  has 
chosen  as  temp'rary  chairman  o'  this  convention 
Judge  Zephaniah  P.  Bailey  of  Mason  County." 

There  was  a  hum  of  human  interest  in  the  crowd. 
But  Rankin  had  not  done.  He  still  stood  there,  and 
the  delegates  cocked  their  ears  to  hear  the  rest. 
One  or  two  leaders  among  the  Sprague  faction  rose 
to  their  feet  in  readiness  for  parliamentary  action. 

"An'  fer  temp'rary  sec'etary,  Joseph  Hale  of 
Tazewell." 

Instantly  the  Sprague  leaders  began  to  shout* 

"Mr.  Chairman!    Mr.  Chairman!" 

Their  cries  were  reinforced  by  the  shouts  of  half 
the  delegates,  the  half,  approximately,  that  were 
there  to  vote  for  Sprague.  The  Garwood  men  sat 
tight,  with  soft  smiles  of  satisfaction. 

One  of  Sprague's  lieutenants,  Randolph,  began 
an  impetuous  speech,  shaking  his  fist  and  a  mass 
of  disordered  hair  at  Rankin.  The  chairman,  how- 
ever, mauled  the  desk  with  his  gavel,  and  did  not 
wait  for  quiet  to  say: 

"I'll  interduce  to  you  your  temp'rary  chairman, 
Judge  Zephaniah  P.  Bailey  o'  Mason  County." 

The    man    who,    having   awaited    Rankin's   an- 


262  The   13  th   District 

nouncement  at  the  foot  of  the  three  steps  that  led 
to  the  rostrum,  now  took  the  gavel  from  him,  was 
tall,  and  thin  and  spare.  He  had  walked  from  the 
side  to  the  center  of  his  stage  with  splay-footed 
steps,  and  now  he  stood,  bent  awkwardly,  almost 
helplessly,  over  the  desk.  He  was  dressed  in  gray, 
ill-fitting  clothes,  his  ready-made  coat  hanging 
from  his  bony  shoulders  with  that  loose  absence 
of  identity  which  characterizes  the  garment  fash- 
ioned for  the  type  rather  than  for  the  indi- 
vidual. A  standing  collar,  wide  open  in  front, 
disclosed  a  protruding  larynx ;  about  the  collar  was 
knotted  a  stringy  cravat  of  black.  His  hair  was 
low  parted  on  the  left  side,  and  hung  in  a  great 
plume  over  the  right  temple.  But  the  man  showed 
in  the  face,  a  face  smooth  shaven,  long  and  firm, 
with  its  heavy  jaw,  pointed  chin,  and  level  lips  cut 
straight  as  the  eyebrows  that  shadowed  his  eyes. 
And  it  was  the  eyes  that  marked  and  inspired  the 
face.  Small  they  were,  and  half  closed,  so  that 
at  first  glance  they  seemed  sleepy,  yet  when  they 
opened  they  could  flash  sparks  from  a  bright,  deter- 
mined mind.  But  always  they  showed  uncommon 
shrewdness,  and  a  knowledge  of  common  people 
and  common  things,  and  now  and  then  they 
twinkled  with  the  keen,  dry  humor  sleeping  in  the 
brain  that  lay  behind  them.  It  was  beginning  to  be 
observed  within  the  confines  of  his  own  county,  Ma- 
son, that  Zeph  Bailey  looked  like  Abraham  Lincoln, 
a  resemblance  much  prized  and  sometimes  culti- 
vated by  the  Illinois  politician,  with  whom  the  phy- 
sical resemblance  too  often  suffices  for  the  moral. 


In  Convention  Assembled      263 

Judge  Bailey,  however,  was  too  independent  to 
care  to  resemble  any  other  man,  even  such  a  man 
as  Lincoln.  He  had  already  had  a  term  as  county 
judge  of  Mason,  had  been  a  member  of  the  lower 
House  at  Springfield,  and  was  again  a  candidate 
for  the  Legislature,  with  ambitions,  it  was  un- 
derstood, to  be  Speaker.  There  was  about  this 
man,  strange,  silent,  uncouth  and  awkward  in  ap- 
pearance, that  mysterious  thing  called  personal 
magnetism,  beloved  of  politicians,  even  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  Illinois,  above  any  resemblance  to 
Lincoln,  and  this  magnetism  was  shown  the  minute 
he  appeared,  for  the  delegates  were  silent;  they 
raised  their  eyes  to  him,  and  the  strange  spell  of  his 
personality  began  to  play  upon  them. 

Rankin,  who  had  instantly  removed  his  coat 
on  leaving  the  rostrum,  and  seated  himself  in  the 
front  row  of  delegates,  though  not  yet  with  his  fel- 
lows from  Polk,  turned  to  the  man  beside  him  and 
whispered,  prophetically,  reader  of  men  that  he 
was: 

"You  want  to  look  out  fer  Zeph  Bailey — he's  a 
comin'  man — smart  's  a  singed  cat." 

Rankin's  comparison  seemed  to  appeal  to  his 
neighbor,  who  did  not  know  how  commonly  it  was 
employed  in  Bailey's  own  home,  and  he  nodded  his 
instant  appreciation. 

"Looks  like  he  had  lumbago  in  the  back,"  the 
man  added.  He  was  a  DeWitt  County  delegate  far 
removed  from  the  limits  to  which  Bailey's  fame  at 
that  time  had  spread.  And  Rankin  whispered 
back: 


264  The  13  th  District 

"Well,  if  he  has,  it  must  pain  him  considerable, 
fer  his  back  bone  runs  clear  down  to  his  heels." 

Bailey  still  stood  there,  bent  painfully,  and  re- 
mained silent.  The  hand  at  the  end  of  a  thin  wrist 
that  had  never  known  a  linen  cuff,  held  the  gavel 
at  an  awkward  angle,  but  an  observer  would  have 
noticed  that  the  handle  was  firm  in  his  fist,  and  that 
when  it  fell,  an  instant  later,  it  fell  with  sharp, 
stern  blows,  not  upon  its  edge,  but  full  upon  its 
poll,  sure  sign  that  a  strong  man  is  in  the  chair. 

"The  convention — will  be — in  order." 

He  spoke  in  a  sharp,  penetrating  voice,  his  words 
falling  strangely  into  couplets,  and  then  his  thin 
lips  closed  firmly  again.  Hale  had  come  forward 
and  taken  his  seat  at  the  old  bow-legged  table 
where  the  clerk  of  the  court  usually  sat,  and  this  act 
of  his  seemed  to  personalize  the  action  of  Rankin 
in  seizing  the  whole  temporary  organization,  and 
so  maddened  the  Sprague  men  afresh.  They  had 
been  willing  to  tolerate  Bailey,  partly  because  of 
his  strange  popularity,  partly  because  of  the  recog- 
nized precedent  that  supported  Rankin  in  naming 
the  temporary  chairman.  There  were  precedents 
for  such  a  selection  of  a  temporary  secretary,  also, 
as  there  were  precedents  for  almost  everything  in 
the  Thirteenth  District,  but  they  had  expected  a 
test  vote  on  the  selection  of  that  officer,  and  they 
felt  strong  then  and  wiUing  that  the  issue  be 
joined.  When  they  saw  how  they  had  been  balked, 
they  were  angry,  and  they  vented  that  anger  by 
shouting  at  Hale  to  come  away,  and  now  and  then 
they  turned  their  personalities  upon  Rankin,  who 


In  Convention  Assembled      265 

only  smiled,  as  if  he  beheld  his  work  and  found  it 
very  good. 

Bailey  cast  his  inscrutable  little  eye  around  the 
assemblage,  and  then  rapped  with  his  gavel.  His 
thin  lips  moved,  and  men  saw  that  he  was  going  to 
speak.  Those  who  knew  him  ceased  to  make  noise, 
not  liking  to  miss  anything  Zeph  Bailey  might  say. 
In  this  desire,  they  pulled  at  their  neighbors  and 
said: 

"Sh !  sh !    He's  going  to  say  something." 

In  the  partial  quiet  they  were  thus  enabled  to 
produce,  Bailey  drawled: 

"If  the  brethren — will  be — seated — another  op- 
portunity— will  be  afforded  them — to  rise — for 
prayers — at  a  later  stage — of  the  revival." 

The  tense  quality  of  the  situation  was  dissipated 
in  a  laugh,  though  all  the  possibilities  hung  un- 
discharged, electrically,  in  the  hot  atmosphere.  A 
moment  longer  Bailey  waited  and  then  he  began  his 
speech.  While  he  spoke,  he  stood  stooped  over  the 
desk,  holding  on  to  his  gavel.  He  spoke  all  the 
way  through  in  those  sharp  couplets  of  words, 
slowly  wrought  out.  He  bowed  to  custom  only 
long  enough  to  make  the  usual  adjurations  to  the 
delegates  to  discharge  their  high  duties  faithfully, 
and  he  bestowed  the  customary  partisan  praise  on 
the  state  administration  and  on  the  national  admin- 
istration. There  was  applause  of  course,  which 
he  endured  calmly,  bent  over  the  desk,  waiting  for 
it  to  end.  But  when  these  formalities  had  been 
observed,  he  talked  to  them  of  common  things,  like 
the  heat  and  the  corn  crop,  and  he  made  jokes  about 


266  The  13th  District 

the  distilleries  that  lined  the  Illinois  River,  and  at 
his  solemn  sarcasms  the  crowd  laughed. 

Rankin  was  in  high  good  humor.  He  had  found 
a  new  man,  and  his  beginning  augured  well  for  the 
success  of  the  convention.  When  Judge  Bailey 
stopped,  there  were  cries  of  "Go  on!   go  on!" 

But  the  Singed  Cat  rapped  instantly  with  his 
gavel  and  said: 

'The  convention — ^again — will  be — in  order.'* 

And  the  speech  was  done. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "what  is — the  further 
pleasure — of  the  convention?" 

The  judge  uttered  this  formality  with  all  parlia- 
mentary deference,  and  the  twinkle  deep  hidden  in 
his  eyes  showed  that  the  irony  of  it  was  apparent  to 
him,  even  if  it  was  lost  on  the  delegates. 

The  spell  of  his  quaint  oratory  having  been 
broken,  instantly  there  was  a  shuffling  of  boots,  and 
a  dozen  men  sprang  to  their  feet. 

"Mr.  Chairman!  Mr.  Chairman!"  they  cho- 
rused. 

But  Bailey's  eyes,  having  lost  the  twinkle  they 
had  had  when  he  asked  the  pleasure  of  the  conven- 
tion, now  sought  the  type-written  program  lying 
on  the  desk  before  him,  that  he  might  be  sure  of 
Rankin's  pleasure.  And  then,  his  eyes  traveling 
from  one  to  another  of  the  many  flushed  faces  that 
opened  upon  him,  their  cold  gleam  unerringly 
rested  upon  James  of  the  Polk  County  delegation, 
and  Bailey  said: 

"The  gentleman — from  Polk." 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  said  James,  hurriedly,  "I  move 


In  Convention  Assembled      267 

that  a  committee  on  credentials  of  seven  members, 
one  from  each  county,  be  selected." 

"How  shall — the  committee — ^be  appointed?"  in- 
quired the  chair.  Rankin  glared  rebukingly  at 
James,  and  arose  to  go  to  him.  He  detected  the 
chance  of  blunder  whereby  all  his  plans  might  go 
wrong. 

"By  the  chair,"  he  growled  at  James. 

"By  the  chair,"  James  repeated. 

"Second  the  motion!"  all  the  Garwood  men 
yelled. 

Randolph  was  on  his  feet. 

"Mr.  Chairman!"  he  cried,  "I  move  you,  sir,  as 
a  substitute — " 

Randolph  was  ever  parliamentary,  but  Bailey 
rapped  him  to  order  with  the  gager's  mallet  as  if 
he  had  been  a  mere  disturbing  child,  and  said: 

"The  gentleman — from  Polk;  seconded  by  the 
gentleman  from  Tazewell,  moves — that  a  commit- 
tee— on  credentials — consisting — of  one  delegate 
— from  each  county — be  appointed — by  the  chair. 
As  many — as  favor — ^the  motion — will  say — " 

"Mr.  Chairman !"  Randolph  was  advancing  to- 
ward the  desk  with  uplifted  arm,  his  face  was  very 
red  and  already  streaming  with  perspiration.  "Mr. 
Chairman!"  he  yelled.  "It  has  always  been  the 
custom  in  this  district  for  the  delegates  to  retire  by 
counties  and  to  select  their  own  members  for  each 
committee.     I  move  you,  sir,  as  a  substitute — " 

"The  gentleman — from  Moultrie,"  drawled  Bai- 
ley, "is  out — of  order.    Those  of  you — who  favor 


268  The  I  3  th   District 

— the  motion — of  the  gentleman  from  Polk — will 
say— 'Aye.' " 

A  mighty  chorus  of  "Ayes !"  swelled  up  from  the 
mass  of  delegates. 

"Those  opposed — 'No.'  " 

Another  heavy,  deep-throated  volume  of  "Noes" 
burst  forth.  Instantly  Bailey  swung  his  heavy  gavel 
to  his  ear,  and  he  said,  though  still  in  that  deliberate 
way  of  his: 

"The  ayes — seem — to  have  it,  the  ayes — ^have  it, 
and  the  motion  is  adopted." 

Then  his  gavel  fell.  And  as  the  storm  broke 
upon  him,  he  stood  with  the  weak  stoop  in  his  back, 
and  looked  down  on  the  three  score  and  more  of 
angry  men  who  were  howling  at  him.  His  face 
never  showed  sign  of  emotion,  but  with  his  small 
eyes  blinking  slowly,  his  thin  lips  closed,  he  looked 
at  them,  and  then  began  a  slow,  monotonous,  per- 
sistent tap,  tap,  tap  of  the  gavel. 

"The  convention — again — will  be — in  order,"  he 
drawled,  tapping  with  his  gavel  all  the  while.  "The 
convention — again — will  be — in  order." 

At  last  the  storm  wore  out,  and  Randolph,  and 
two  or  three  of  his  men  gathered  in  a  little  knot. 
After  they  had  held  their  disheveled  heads  together 
in  counsel  for  awhile,  Randolph  raised  his  hand, 
and  hushed  his  delegates,  and  said,  when  he  had 
stilled  the  clamor: 

"Let  'em  alone.  It'll  come  out  all  right.  We've 
got  the  votes." 

Bailey  meanwhile  had  ceased  to  tap,  and  now 


In  Convention  Assembled      269 

stood  leaning  on  the  gavel.  He  began  to  speak 
again : 

"The  chair — appoints,"  he  said,  his  eye  leaving 
his  program  and  seeking  the  men  he  designated 
as  members  of  the  committee,  "Messrs.  James  of 
Polk,  White  of  Logan,  Kemper  of  Mason,  Brown 
of  Tazewell,  Harrington  of  DeWitt,  Parker  of 
Moultrie,  and  Johnson  of  Piatt." 

All  save  Harrington,  Parker  and  Johnson  were 
Garwood  men.  The  program  was  then  followed, 
in  choosing  by  the  same  process,  the  committees  on 
resolutions  and  on  permanent  organization.  There 
too  the  Garwood  men  were  given  the  majority, 
though  Bailey  ignored  Rankin's  program  in  one 
instance,  and  that  was  in  naming  Randolph  for  the 
committee  on  resolutions,  but  he  did  it  in  some  half 
humorous  notion  of  his  own  that  Randolph  could 
there  gratify  his  love  for  words,  and  do  little  harm. 
The  Garwood  men  were  not  particular  about  the 
resolutions,  though  Rankin  gave  to  Ben  Fuller, 
Polk  County's  representative  on  the  committee,  a 
copy  of  the  platform  Garwood  had  written  out. 

Noon  had  come,  and  was  pouring  its  heat  into 
the  court  room.  The  committees  having  been  cho- 
sen, the  convention  could  do  nothing  more  until 
they  reported.     Bailey  therefore  said : 

"What  is — ^the  further — ^pleasure — of  the  conven- 
tion?" 

And  Rankin  arose. 

";Mr.  Chairman,"  he  said,  "I  move  that  we  take 
a  recess  until  two  o'clock." 


270  The  13th   District 

Bailey  put  the  motion  and  of  course  it  carried. 
And  then  he  said : 

"And  the  convention — stands  adjourned — until 
two  o'clock  this  afternoon — at  which  hour — the 
riot — will  be — resumed." 

His  gavel  fell. 

As  he  was  descending  from  the  platform,  Ran- 
kin rushed  heavily  toward  him,  and  at  the  same 
instant,  Randolph  also  started  for  him.  Before 
Rankin  could  congratulate  him,  Randolph  was  talk- 
ing. 

"Look  here,  Zeph,  and  you,  too,  Jim,"  he  began 
in  that  curious  inofficial  tone  which  men  use  when 
their  relations  become  personal  again,  "we  demand 
a  vote  on  this  permanent  organization  business.  We 
ain't  going  to  be  shut  out  altogether." 

"Don't  like  my  presiding,  eh?"  asked  Bailey. 

"Oh,  I'd  like  it  all  right  if  it  was  on  my  side," 
Randolph  laughed,  "but  we  demand  a  vote." 

"Oh,  you'll  get  a  vote,  Hal,"  Rankin  remarked, 
"all  the  vote  you  want  'fore  you're  through — eh, 
Zeph?" 

"I  always  aim  to  treat  every  one  fairly,"  an- 
swered Bailey. 

Randolph  looked  at  him.  "Aw,  come  off!"  he 
said,  helplessly. 


XI 


THE  convention  assembled  at  two  o'clock, 
though  with  the  only  conspicuous  delibera- 
tion that  our  deliberative  bodies  display,  it 
was  half-past  two  before  Judge  Bailey  brought  it  to 
order  by  a  crack  of  his  gavel.  The  sun  had  seemed 
to  hang  still  on  the  meridian.  The  white  cloud  that 
had  mounded  itself  on  the  horizon  in  the  early 
morning  had  slowly  and  majestically  inflated  all  the 
day,  until  it  covered  the  whole  of  the  western  sky, 
w^here  it  flashed  in  the  focalized  rays  of  the  sun. 
Far  down  at  the  base  of  the  pile  of  cloud,  an  omi- 
nous blackness  was  spreading,  so  that  the  farmers 
of  the  various  delegations,  trudging  along  the 
sidewalks  toward  the  court  house,  with  their 
waistcoats  unfastened  and  their  coats  on  their 
arms,  prophesied  rain,  and,  drawn  out  of  the  differ- 
ences of  factional  feeling  into  the  brotherhood  of 
husbandry,  they  welcomed  it  with  reciprocal  felic- 
itations for  the  common  good  it  would  do  their 
corn.  When  they  reached  the  court  house,  the 
heat  was  stifling;  the  day  seemed  to  stand  still 
with  the  sun,  and  the  air  they  breathed  fairly 
scorched  their  nostrils. 

The  report  of  the  committee  on  credentials  was 

received;    there  were  no  contests.    The  report  of 

the  committee  on  resolutions  was  read,  and  the 

platform,  in  the  wider  partisanship  that  momen- 

271 


272  The  13  th   District 

tarily  swallowed  up  factionalism,  applauded.  And 
then  Jim  Rankin  read  the  report  of  the  committee 
on  permanent  organization.  The  report  recom- 
mended that  the  temporary  organization  be  made 
permanent. 

The  sun  and  the  day  had  seemed  to  stop,  now 
time  itself  paused,  for  the  moment  had  come.  The 
fanning  delegates  stiffened  in  their  hard  chairs  and 
became  silent.  The  heavy  air  hung  heavier  still 
with  suspense.  The  sun^  flaming  in  through  the 
tall  western  windows  of  the  old  court  room,  fell 
upon  the  worn  boards  of  the  floor  till  they  smoked 
faintly  and  seemed  likely  to  ignite  under  the  piti- 
less fire. 

Rankin  stood  in  the  very  front,  near  the  chair- 
man's desk,  his  coat  ofif,  his  hair  curled  close  and 
shining  with  the  perspiration  that  glistened  on 
brow  and  face.  He  took  his  cigar  from  his  lips 
and  raised  his  big  arm  in  its  moist  shirt  sleeve, 
toward  Bailey,  who  leaned  wearily,  almost  sleep- 
ily, over  the  desk.  Rankin's  heavy  voice  broke  the 
stillness'. 

"Mr.  Chairman!"  he  said,  'T  move  the  adoption 
of  the  report." 

Randolph  meanwhile  had  arisen  slowly,  care- 
fully, as  if  he  feared  any  noise  he  made  would  mar 
the  situation. 

"The  gentleman — from  Polk,"  drawled  Bailey,  as 
if  the  whole  thing  wearied  him,  "seconded — by  the 
gentleman — from — ah — Tazewell,  moves  the  adop- 
tion— of  the — report.    Aire  you  ready — for  the — " 

"Mr,  Chairman,"  said  Randolph^  heavily  and  de- 


In  Convention  Assembled      273 

liberately,  "Mr.  Chairman,"  he  repeated,  knotting 
his  brows  under  the  mane  that  hung  down  to  meet 
them. 

"The  gentleman — from  Moultrie,"  sighed  Bailey. 

The  delegates  leaned  forward,  intent  in  their  sur- 
prise that  Bailey  had  even  recognized  the  Sprague 
leader. 

"Mr.  Speaker,"  said  Randolph,  "I  mean  Mr. 
Chairman,  I  move  you,  sir,  as  a  substitute  for  the 
report  of  the  committee  just  presented,  the  fol- 
lowing resolution,  which  I  ask  the  clerk  to  read." 

His  use  of  the  words  "speaker"  and  "clerk"  was 
to  show  the  efifect  of  legislative  habit. 

Bailey  only  leaned  a  little  farther  over  his  desk, 
and  then  drawled: 

"The  chair — will  state — to  the  gentleman — from 
Moultrie  that  it  is  not  now — in  order " 

Two  or  three  men  behind  Randolph  rose  half- 
way to  their  feet,  protest  written  in  their  faces, 
but  without  turning  his  head,  or  taking  his  eyes 
from  the  chairman,  Randolph  fluttered  his  hand  at 
them  behind  his  back  and  they  subsided.  It  was 
plain  from  his  manner  that  this  was  a  play  for  posi- 
tion so  delicate,  that  they  must  not  risk  disturbing 
it  by  interrupting  their  leader.  So  Bailey  contin- 
ued :  "For  the  gentleman — to  present — such  a  res- 
olution." 

"But,  Mr.  Speaker,"  began  Randolph. 

"The  chair — will  add — for  the  information — of 
the  gentleman — from  Moultrie,"  Bailey  continued, 
"that — the  only  thing — in  order — at  this  time — 
would  be — a  minority  report — ^and  a  motion — to 


274  The  13  th   District 

substitute  it,  or,  again,  a  motion — to  lay  the  report 
—on  the  table." 

"But,  Mr.  Chairman,"  once  more  began  Ran- 
dolph, stepping  carefully  into  the  aisle,  ''my  reso- 
lution is  in  the  very  nature  of  a  minority  report. 
The  chair  will  remember  the  ruling  of  Speaker 
Haines  in  the  Thirty-fourth  General  Assembly — " 
He  was  taking  higher  ground  by  thus  referring  to 
mysteries  known  only  to  him  and  the  chairman. 
But  Bailey  interrupted  him. 

"The  chair — is  acquainted — with  the  precedent 
■ — to  which — the  gentleman — refers,  and  is — of  the 
opinion — that  it  does — not  properly — apply — in 
this  instance." 

The  delegates  listened  with  rapt  attention.  It 
was  not  often  that  in  their  rude^  free  conventions 
they  had  such  parliamentary  fine  play  as  this,  and 
they  forgot  the  heat  and  the  contest  to  enjoy  their 
own  bewilderment  at  it.  Rankin  still  stood  and 
smoked  in  unconcern.  He  knew  he  could  safely 
leave  Randolph  to  Bailey. 

"And  therefore — the  motion — of  the  gentleman 
— from  Moultrie — is  out — of  order."  As  Bailey  let 
his  gavel  fall,  he  jerked  his  head  toward  Rankin  in 
signal,  and  then  as  the  big  man  heaved  himself 
near,  he  leaned  over  the  desk  to  whisper  to  him. 
Bailey's  very  action  in  leaning  over  the  desk,  in 
removing  his  eyes  from  his  adversary,  in  letting 
the  convention  for  a  moment  slip  his  grasp,  as  it 
were,  was  audacious.  Randolph,  again  repressing 
his  followers  by  the  flutter  of  his  hand,  smiled  with 
satisfaction.    He  took  a  step  farther  down  the  aisle. 


In  Convention  Assembled      275 

"Then,  Mr.  Chairman,"  he  said,  "I  appeal  from 
the  decision  of  the  chair." 

And  immediately  his  following,  glad  at  last  of  a 
chance  to  do  something  to  save  the  nation  and  the 
day,  shouted: 

"Second  the  motion!" 

Bailey  continued  to  whisper  to  Rankin  a  minute 
longer,  then  straightened  himself^  and  looked  over 
the  convention.  Rankin  was  examining  the  end  of 
his  cigar,  and  seemed  intent  on  repairing  it,  for 
it  had  been  smoking  unevenly  and  threatening  to 
come  apart,  as  campaign  cigars  do. 

"The  gentleman — from  Moultrie,"  drawled  Bai- 
ley at  last,  "appeals — from  the  decision — of  the 
chair,  and  the  appeal — is  seconded — by  the  gen- 
tleman— from — ah — was  it  Piatt?"  The  humorous 
twinkle  leaped  in  Bailey's  eye.  Those  of  the  dele- 
gates gifted  with  a  sense  of  humor,  remembering 
the  roar  of  a  moment  before,  laughed.  Randolph, 
who  had  a  career  in  politics  before  him,  and  hence 
was  without  that  sense,  was  waiting  in  the  aisle, 
taking  himself  seriously.  That  Bailey,  as  was 
plain  by  his  manner,  had  not  so  taken  him,  was  a 
source  of  chagrin  to  him  and  a  wound  to  his  pride, 
for  he  and  Bailey  had  served  together,  he  reflected, 
in  the  House !  And  then  Bailey's  awful  deliberation 
maddened  him, 

"The  question,  therefore,"  Bailey  resumed,  "is. 
Shall  the  decision — of  the  chair — stand  as  the  de- 
cision— of  the  convention?" 

He  paused  and  glanced  over  the  assemblage,  and 
Rankin,  having  gone  back  to  his  place  in  the  Folic 


276  The  13  th  District 

County  delegation,  was  now  standing  with  his  arm 
outstretched  toward  the  chair.  Presently  Bailey's 
eye  roved  to  where  Rankin  stood,  and  Rankin  said, 
in  the  low  tones  that  betoken  an  understanding 
■with  the  presiding  officer: 

"Mr.  Chairman." 

"The  gentleman — from  Polk." 

"Mr.  Chairman,  I  move  to  lay  the  appeal  on 
the  table." 

"The  gentleman — from  Polk,"  said  Bailey,  "sec- 
onded— by  the  gentleman — from  Mason — moves  to 
lay — the  appeal — on  the  table.  Aire  you  ready — for 
the  question?  As  many — as  favor — the  motion — 
will  vote — 'Aye' " 

A  great  volume  of  "Ayes"  rolled  from  the 
throats  of  the  Gan\^ood  delegates,  while  the 
Sprague  delegates  began  to  cry: 

"Roll-call!    Roll-call!    Roll-call!" 

Randolph  had  advanced  down  the  aisle  until 
he  was  opposite  Rankin,  His  mane  was  tossing 
savagely,  his  face  was  aflame  and  as  he  shook  his 
fist  at  Bailey  his  lips  moved  rapidly,  though  his 
hot  words  were  lost  in  the  general  din.  All  the 
while  Bailey  calmly  looked  on,  and  kept  up  a  care- 
less tap,  tap,  tapping  with  his  gavel.  The  spec- 
tators who  had  hung  in  the  rear  of  the  court  room 
pressed  forward  among  the  delegates.  Randolph 
approached  to  the  very  desk  and  shook  his  fist 
under  Bailey's  imperturbable,  long  nose. 

"You  promised  us  a  roll-call,  and  you've  got  to 
be  fair  and  give  us  a  show!  If  you  don't,  damn  you, 
I'll " 


In  Convention  Assembled      277 

Bailey  hung  far  over  the  desk  now  and  said  in 
his  drawl: 

"Hal  Randolph,  you  damned — little  sucker — 
you,  if  you  don't  go — sit  down — and  behave  your- 
self— I'll  have — to  lam — you  one — with  this  mal- 
let." 

And  then  he  calmly  resumed  his  tapping.  After 
awhile,  his  persistence  won  silence,  and  he  slowly 
wriggled  in  his  ill-fitting  garments  as  if  they  were 
really  as  uncomfortable  as  they  looked. 

"The  convention — again — will  be — in  order,"  he 
said. 

Randolph  assisted  in  quieting  his  band. 

"If  the  convention — will  permit — the  chair — will 
explain — the  parliamentary  situation — in  which — 
the  convention — now  finds  itself." 

He  paused  and  silence  hung  again  upon  his 
words. 

"The  gentleman — from  Polk — presented — a  re- 
port— from  the  committee — on  permanent  organ- 
ization— and  moved — its  adoption.  The  gentle- 
man— from — ah — Moultrie — then  offered — a  reso- 
lution. That  resolution — the  chair — declared — to 
be — out  of  order.  Thereupon  the  gentleman — 
from  Moultrie — appealed — from  the  decision — of 
the  chair.  That  appeal — the  gentleman — from  Polk 
— moved — to  lay — upon  the  table.  The  question, 
therefore,  recurs — upon  the  motion — of  the  gen- 
tleman— from  Polk — to  table — the  appeal.  Upon 
that  question — the  yeas  and  nays — or,  rather,  a 
roll-call — of  the  delegations — has  been — demand- 
ed.   Those    of    you — who    favor — the    motion — 


278  The  I  3  th  District 

that  is,  those  of  you — who  favor — tabhng  the  ap- 
peal— and  the  adoption — of  the  report — of  the 
committee  on  permanent  organization — will  vote 
— 'Aye,'  and  those — opposed — will  vote — 'No' — 
upon  the  polling — of  your  respective — delegations, 
and  the  secretary — will  call — the  roll — of  the  coun- 
ties." 

The  gavel  fell,  and  Randolph  turned,  smiling 
complacently  as  one  who  had  already  won  his 
fight. 

"Vote  No!"  he  called  to  simphfy  the  issue  for 
his  men. 

And  Rankin  shouted: 

"Vote  Aye,  boys;  vote  Aye." 

The  delegations  gathering  in  little  groups  were 
poUed  amid  a  hum  of  busy  interest.  Bailey  had 
seated  himself  and  looked  with  sleepy  unconcern 
down  on  the  mass  of  men,  tearing  up  their  little 
slips  of  paper  and  dropping  them  in  the  black 
slouch  hats  of  southern  Illinois.  Once  he  moved, 
and  beckoned  to  him  a  man  from  his  own  delega- 
tion, and  cast  his  ballot  with  the  Mason  fellows. 
At  last  the  hats  were  reposing  between  knees,  the 
ballots  were  counted.    Bailey  slowly  arose. 

"Have  you  all  voted?"  he  asked.  The  silence  ac- 
quiesced. 

"The  secretary — will  call — the  roll — of  the 
counties."  And  then  intensity  hung  again  in  the 
air.    Hale  called  off  the  names  of  the  counties. 

"DeWitt?" 

"Eighteen  votes  No!" 

'TLogan?" 


In  Convention  Assembled      279 

"Thirteen  votes  Aye,  eleven  votes  No." 

The  Sprague  men  clapped  their  hands. 

"Mason?" 

"Eighteen  votes  Aye!" 

Randolph  turned  and  knit  his  brows.  Then  he 
smiled  again.    He  was  keeping  tab  on  his  knee. 

"Moultrie?" 

"Fifteen~N-o-o!" 

"Piatt?" 

"Fifteen  votes  No!" 

"Polk?" 

The  silence  was  absolute.  Rankin  and  Pusey 
had  been  wrangling.     Pusey  announced  the  vote. 

"Twenty-two  Yeas  and  twenty-three  Nays." 

There  was  cheering  from  the  Sprague  men  and 
the  gavel  cracked. 

"Tazewell?" 

"Thirty  votes — Aye!"  shouted  Carlin,  one  of 
Joe  Hale's  men,  drawing  out  the  aflfirmative  unctu- 
ously.   He  was  thinking  of  Joe's  job. 

Then,  while  the  convention  awaited  the  result. 
Hale  figured  painfully.  Rankin  stepped  up  to  help 
him.  The  Sprague  men  howled  an  objection  and 
Randolph  advanced  to  a  place  near  the  secretary. 
But  Hale  figured  under  the  shelter  of  his  palm. 
When  he  had  done,  he  handed  the  slip  up  to  the 
chairman.  Bailey  examined  it  attentively  an  in- 
stant, a  long  instant,  then  the  convention  grew  im- 
patient and  cried: 

"Give  it  to  us!    Give  it  to  us!" 

Bailey  waited,  again  studying  the  slip.  And  at 
last,  holding  it  in  his  fingers,  he  said: 


28o  The  I  3  th  District 

"On  this  vote — the  Yeas  aire — eighty-three,  and 
the  Nays — aire  eighty-two,  and  the  motion — " 

Randolph  was  standing  in  the  aisle,  his  finger 
poised,  his  lips  apart,  his  eyes  blazing.  His  face 
glowed  with  a  delight  he  could  not  conceal  as  he 
cried: 

"Mr.  Chairman!  Mr.  Chairman!  A  point  of 
order!" 

Bailey  paused  and  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"Well,"  he  said,  wearily,  "the  gentleman — may 
state — his  point  of  order." 

Again  the  silence,  again  the  interest  in  this  fenc- 
ing between  the  two  parliamentarians. 

"My  point  of  order,  Mr.  Chairman,  is  this :"  Ran- 
dolph kept  his  forefinger  in  its  parliamentary 
poise.  "The  delegation  from  Mason  County  cast 
eighteen  votes  in  the  affirmative." 

Bailey  nodded. 

"And  I  believe,  Mr.  Chairman,"  Randolph  went 
on,  taking  his  time,  that  he  might  uncover  his  point 
slowly  and  thus  make  it  the  more  effective  in  the 
end,  "that  the  chair  is  a  member  of  the  Mason 
County  delegation." 

"The  gentleman — is  eminently — correct,"  said 
Bailey. 

"Then,  Mr.  Chairman,"  said  Randolph,  raising 
his  voice  for  his  climax,  "as  the  chair's  delegation 
cast  its  full  vote,  the  chair  evidently  voted  on  this 
proposition,  and  the  chair  is  not  entitled  to  a  vote 
on  an  appeal  from  his  own  decision.  With  the 
vote  the  chair  improperly  cast  eliminated,  the  re- 
sult would  be  a  tie,  and  therefore  the  motion  would 


In  Convention  Assembled      281 

not  prevail.  Hence  my  point  of  order;  which 
amounts  to  a  challenge  of  the  chair's  vote." 

The  Sprague  men  began  to  laugh  uproariously, 
and  to  applaud  while  Randolph  stood  in  the  aisle 
in  his  statesmanlike  attitude,  enjoying  his  triumph. 
And  as  their  laugh  began  to  subside  Bailey's  face 
wrinkled  into  a  strange  annoying  smile.  His  little 
eyes  twinkled. 

"The  gentleman — from  Moultrie — is  correct,"  he 
began.  And  there  was  a  shout.  He  indulged  it 
to  the  echo,  and  then  went  on:  "But  unfortunately 
— for  the  gentleman — from  Moultrie,  however  for- 
tunately— for  the  chair,  this  is  not — a  vote — on  an 
appeal,  but — on  a  motion — to  lay — 'an  appeal — on 
the  table.  The  chair,  if  not  misinformed,  has  the 
right — to  vote — on  all  motions — to  table; — and  on 
this  motion — the  chair — votes  'Aye,'  the  motion 
prevails,  and  the  appeal — is  laid — on  the  table!" 

He  swung  the  gavel  up  and  let  it  fall,  and  the 
Garwood  men  began  to  cheer.  Randolph  looked 
dazed,  and  was  about  to  speak.  But  Bailey,  strik- 
ing order  again  with  his  gavel,  went  on: 

"The  question — now  recurs — upon  the  motion — 
of  the  gentleman — from  Polk — that  the  report — of 
the  committee — be  adopted.  As  many — as  favor 
— the  motion — will  say — 'Aye.'  " 

There  was  a  mighty  shout,  "Aye !" 

"As  many — as  are  opposed — will  vote — 'No!**' 

The  Sprague  men  yelled  "No!" — an  equal  vol- 
ume. 

"The  ayes — seem — to  have  it,"  said  Bailey,  "the 
ayes — have  it,  and  the  motion — prevails." 


282  The  13  th   District 

The  gavel  fell.    The  Sprague  men  sat  dumb. 

"And  the  temporary — organization — therefore 
becomes — the  permanent  organization — of  this 
convention,"  said  Bailey,  speaking  as  if  he  were 
merely  resuming  some  sentence  that  all  the  con- 
fusion of  balloting  had  interrupted,  an  interruption 
to  him  of  no  more  importance  than  the  pauses  he 
made  in  his  words.  Thus  the  Garwood  men  se- 
cured the  control  of  the  convention  and  won  the 
first  round. 


XII 


THE  sun  poured  its  rays  now  on  a  dead  level 
through  the  unwashed  glass  of  the  western 
windows;  the  dust  beaten  out  of  the  old  floor 
by  the  stamping  feet  of  Garwood's  successful  co- 
horts quivered  in  its  beams.  The  storm,  promised 
early  in  the  afternoon,  had  inconsequently  vanished 
after  some  unvindicated  mutterings  of  its  prophetic 
thunder,  and  left  the  town  hotter  than  ever.  The 
air  was  oppressed  with  heavy  humidity,  and  the 
farmer  delegates,  dreaming  vaguely  of  their  corn, 
beheld  it  drying  in  the  heat,  rattling  its  yellow 
leaves.  In  the  crowded  court  room  the  delegates 
languished  in  their  shirt  sleeves,  the  collars  of 
those  who  still  wore  collars,  wilted  into  moist  and 
shapeless  masses  at  their  throats.  The  fight  had 
beaten  the  life  out  of  them,  even  those  who  were 
radiant  in  victory.  Some  one,  a  Sprague  man, 
moved  an  adjournment.  But  Rankin  frowned  and 
shouted,  "No,  no/'  to  his  followers.  He  had  just 
then  an  advantage  he  did  not  care  to  lose.  And 
so,  when  the  motion  was  put,  the  Singed  Cat, 
glancing  at  the  solemn  judicial  clock  and  seeing 
that  two  hours  of  the  afternoon  yet  remained,  de- 
clared it  defeated,  and  then  he  drawled: 

"Nominations  —  of  candidates  —  for  represent- 
ative— in  Congress — aire  now — in  order." 

When  he  had  said  this,  he  seemed  glad  to  sit 
283 


284  The  1 3  th  District 

down,  though  he  alone  of  all  the  others  was  un- 
perturbed by  that  awful  heat,  and  wore  his  ill-fit- 
ting coat  as  though  he  would  preserve  the  decorum 
of  the  occasion,  as  Napoleon,  for  example  to  his 
men,  wore  his  uniform  buttoned  to  the  chin  while 
he  led  them  across  the  hot  sands  of  Egypt. 

The  tired  and  exhausted  delegates  settled  down 
gloomily  to  hear  the  nominating  speeches.  Some 
of  them  showed  an  intention  of  slipping  out  of  the 
court  room,  lured  by  thought  of  the  cooling 
drafts  of  beer  in  the  saloons  that  presented  their 
fronts  eagerly  to  the  very  face  of  the  temple  of 
Tazewell  County  justice,  but  the  bosses  of  either 
side,  fearing  some  advantage  might  be  taken  of 
their  absence,  held  them  to  their  posts.  And  so 
they  listened  to  the  impassioned  speech  into  which 
Randolph  was  able  to  work  himself  in  placing  in 
nomination  the  name  of  "that  profound  jurist,  that 
able  statesman^  that  honest  man,  Conrad 
Sprague!" 

Then  followed  Dorsey,  whom  Rankin  had 
chosen  for  the  honor  of  naming  his  candidate. 
Every  one  knew  of  course  whom  Dorsey  was  pre- 
senting, and  yet  he  treasured  his  name  as  a  hidden 
surprise  for  his  closing  sentence;  in  which  he  epi- 
tomized him  as  "the  tall  Sycamore  of  the  Sanga- 
mon, whose  eloquence  still  reverberates  in  the 
halls  of  national  legislation,  whose  fame  is  grow- 
ing brighter  and  fairer  as  the  days  go  by,  in  honor- 
ing whom  the  people  of  the  Thirteenth  District, 
representing  as  it  does  the  pride  and  glory  of  cen- 
tral Illinois,  are    but    honoring    themselves — that 


In  Convention  Assembled      285 

champion  of  popular  rights,  that  man  of  the  com- 
mon people,  our  present  representative,  the  Hon- 
orable Jerome  B.  Garwood!" 

There  were  speeches  seconding  these  nomina- 
tions, and  applause  following  them,  carefully  ap- 
portioned by  the  supporters  of  each,  and  then  when 
all  had  done,  when  every  one  thought  the  last  word 
had  been  spoken,  when  the  Singed  Cat  had  arisen, 
leaned  over  the  desk  and  inquired: 

"Aire  there — any  other — or  further — nomina- 
tions?" 

Grant  Knowlton  of  Lincoln  arose  and  said: 

"Mr.  Chairman." 

Because  it  was  unexpected,  the  common  phrase 
fell  upon  their  ears  with  a  dramatic  force.  The 
delegates  scraped  about  to  face  the  new  speaker. 

"The  gentleman — from  Logan,"  said  the  Singed 
Cat. 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  Knowlton  began,  "and  gen- 
tlemen of  the  convention:  Old  Logan  brings  you 
from  her  ripening  corn  fields,  from  her  sun-kissed 
prairies,  from  her  populous  towns,  the  name  of  her 
favorite  son.  She  comes,  Mr.  Chairman,  bringing 
you  a  man  who  ranks  foremost  in  the  afifections  of 
the  citizens  of  the  thriving  city  which  the  great 
Emancipator  himself  laid  ofT  with  his  own  chain 
and  compass,  that  now  repose  as  honored  relics  in 
his  hallowed  tomb  in  Springfield,  the  town  to  which 
he  gave  his  own  name,  who  has  never  sought  the 
consideration  of  his  neighbors  but  has  always  had 
it;  who  stands  to-day  among  her  leading  men,  who, 
in  the  great  hour  of  national  peril  when  the  skies 


286  The  13  th  District 

were  dark,  went  forth  to  help  strike  the  shackles 
from  the  bleeding  limbs  of  four  millions  of  human 
beings,  who  has  since  served  his  country  equally 
as  well  if  in  an  humbler  capacity." 

Knowlton  poured  forth  his  sentences  so  rapidly 
that  the  delegates  scarce  could  follow  them,  and 
filled  with  curiosity  as  they  were,  they  could  not 
determine  from  his  mixed  relatives  whether  he  was 
about  to  nominate  Abraham  Lincoln  himself,  or 
some  man  of  a  later,  and  if  not  an  abler,  at  least  a 
livelier  generation.  The  young  lawyer  felt  that  he 
had  at  last  his  opportunity,  and  he  was  seizing  it. 
He  had  cleared  a  space  among  the  chairs  about 
him,  and  in  this  he  strode  back  and  forth,  waving 
his  arms,  and  shaking  his  head  so  fiercely  that  his 
black  locks  flapped,  and  his  face  became  a  mere 
red  blur.  The  young  man  had  a  deep  resonant 
voice,  and  its  tones  vibrating  to  his  own  passion 
thrilled  at  last  the  hearts  of  the  men  who  listened, 
a  physical  manifestation  in  which  is  to  be  found 
doubtless  the  success  of  much  oratory.  So  he  was 
kept  on  fire  by  cheers.  But  at  last,  the  curiosity  to 
know  who  was  this  new  Richmond  in  the  field,  as 
Charlie  Cowley  called  him  in  his  despatches  the 
next  morning,  this  new  Richmond  who  took  them 
by  such  surprise  and  so  thoroughly  destroyed  their 
calculations,  grew  beyond  mastery,  and  the  youth's 
periods  were  marred  by  cries  of: 

"Name  him!     Name  him!" 

The  interruption  did  not  fluster  the  young  orator. 
Men  all  about  him  were  straining  to  catch  the  first 
accents  of  the  name  of  this  dark  horse  from  Logan 


In  Convention  Assembled      287 

County,  farther  away  old  men  placed  their  hands 
behind  their  ears  to  aid  their  hearing,  still  farther 
off  delegates  leaned  anxiously  forward,  with  brows 
knit  in  a  painful  intensity.  Young  Knowlton  took 
it  all  as  a  tribute  to  his  oratory,  and  his  really  fine 
voice,  a  voice  that  would  carry  any  man  far  in 
public  speaking,  rolled  to  the  ceiling  of  the  old 
court  room.  The  Singed  Cat  alone  remained  im- 
passive and  cold.  Rankin  and  Randolph  stood  and 
hung  on  his  words,  trouble  written  in  their  faces. 
But  Knowlton  was  exhausting  himself.  His  deep 
voice  grew  husky,  the  perspiration  streamed  from 
his  face,  his  breath  came  in  a  vapor  from  his  mouth, 
hot  as  the  atmosphere  was.  At  last  it  was  plain 
that  he  had  worn  himself  out. 

"Shall  I  name  him?"  he  gasped.  "Shall  I  name 
this  peerless  son  of  old  Logan,  who  in  every  hour 
of  public  need  has  been  ready  to  answer  the  call 
of  public  duty?  He  is  known  to  you  all,  he  is 
known  to  every  one  in  the  seven  counties  that 
comprise  this  agricultural  empire  of  the  Thirteenth 
District.  Aye,  his  fame  has  spread  beyond  her 
confines,  it  is  written  on  the  pages  where  are  en- 
rolled the  glorious  names  of  those  who  fought  the 
nation's  battles,  it  is  emblazoned  in  the  fair  temple 
of  civic  triumph.  We  bring  you  a  leader,  Mr. 
Chairman,  to  harmonize  all  your  differences,  to 
cement  the  grand  old  party  for  another  mighty 
onward  march  to  victory,  who  will  plant  your  flag 
as  he  has  planted  that  proud  emblem  of  a  free  peo- 
ple, the  glorious  stars  and  stripes,  on  the  ramparts 
of  the  routed  and  flying  enemy.     Nominate  him, 


288  The  13th   District 

gentlemen,  and  in  the  Ides  of  November,  when  the 
ballots  come 

"  'down  as  still 
As  snow-flakes  fall  upon  the  sod; 
But  execute  a  freeman's  will 

As  lightning  does  the  will  of  God,' 

he  will  be  found  to  have  been  elected." 

And  Knowlton  sank  into  his  chair,  gasping  for 
breath,  his  chest  heaving  with  the  violence  of  his 
exertion.  The  delegates  looked  at  him  and  at 
one  another  a  moment  in  surprise,  and  then  they 
began  to  cry  all  at  once: 

"What's  his  name?" 

"You  didn't  name  him!" 

"Give  us  his  name!" 

"Name  him!" 

Knowlton  sprang  to  his  feet;  for  an  instant  he 
stood  and  looked  helplessly  around.  His  face 
flamed  a  deeper  crimson  and  he  said  in  a  hoarse, 
tired  voice: 

"Our  candidate,  gentlemen — his  name  is  Gen- 
eral William  M.  Barrett." 

The  anti-climax  produced  a  laugh  which  relieved 
the  tensity  of  the  situation. 

Knowlton  sank  into  his  chair  again  and  was 
mopping  his  neck  with  his  handkerchief.  The 
members  of  his  own  delegation  pressed  about  him 
in  congratulation.  Moist  hands  were  thrust  at  him 
from  all  sides.  Rankin  himself  strode  back  and 
offered  his  felicitations.  Knowlton  smiled,  and 
shook  his  head  in  depreciation  of  his  own  effort. 


In  Convention  Assembled      289 

Some  one  thought  to  second  the  nomination  of 
Barrett,  and  the  Singed  Cat  arose. 

"Aire  there — any  other — or  further — nomina- 
tions?" he  asked.  "If  not — ^the  nominations — aire 
now — closed.  The  delegates  will  prepare  their  bal- 
lots— and  the  secretary — will  call — the  roll — of  the 
counties." 

The  interest  tightened.  Delegations  assembled 
close  to  their  leaders,  and  hats  were  passed  for  the 
ballots.     The  supreme  moment  had  come. 

Knowlton  thought  to  create  a  sensation  by  his 
speech;  he  created  a  greater  by  his  nomination. 
The  Logan  County  delegation  had  been  promised 
to  Rankin  by  Jim  O'Malley,  but  when  at  the 
county  convention  in  Lincoln  O'Malley  had  been 
unable  to  secure  a  Garwood  indorsement^  Rankin 
had  feared  the  result  there,  and  his  fears  had  been 
confirmed  when  he  could  not  induce  the  full  dele- 
gation to  cast  its  solid  vote  for  his  plan  to  make 
the  temporary  organization  permanent.  Their  ac- 
tion in  dividing  on  that  question  had  placed  their 
twenty-four  votes  in  the  doubtful  column,  and  now 
that  they  had  seen  fit  to  spring  a  candidate  at  the 
last  moment,  they  had  injected  an  uncertain  ele- 
ment into  the  calculations  of  both  sides  that  per- 
plexed the  leaders.  Rankin  had  hoped  to  hold  his 
eighty-three  votes  together  that  afternoon  and 
nominate  Garwood  on  the  first  ballot.  Now  he 
saw  that  this  would  be  impossible.  A  long,  stub- 
born fight  was  before  him,  and  he  had  a  candidate, 
as  he  recognized  himself,  though  by  no  means 
would  he  admit  it,  who  would  not  gain  in  strength 


290  The  13  th   District 

as  the  hours  passed  by.  At  that  moment  he  felt 
that  he  was  stronger  than  he  ever  would  be  again. 
That  was  why  he  had  refused  to  let  the  convention 
adjourn. 

General  Barrett,  whom  the  Logan  County  delega- 
tion had  thus  brought  out,  was,  while  not  all  perhaps 
that  Knowlton  had  described  him,  nevertheless  Lin- 
coln's leading  man.  He  was  popular  in  his  own 
community,  he  had  amassed,  if  not  strictly  in  his 
practice  of  the  law,  yet  in  the  opportunities  that 
practice  opened  to  him,  a  comfortable  competency. 
He  had  gone  to  Lincoln  in  an  early  day;  he  had 
led  a  regiment  to  the  Civil  War,  and  had  come 
out  of  the  army  with  a  clean  if  not  a  brilliant 
record^  and  in  the  general  distribution  of  brevets 
immediately  following  the  close  of  the  mighty  con- 
flict he  had  shared  to  the  extent  of  an  honorary 
brigadier-generalship.  He  had  then  gone  home 
to  resume  his  quiet  life,  and  by  carefully  pursuing 
a  middle  course  in  all  things,  and  avoiding  the 
making  of  enemies,  he  had  gradually  built  up  a 
reputation  for  honesty  and  integrity  that  made 
him  an  ideal  figure  of  the  colorless,  eminently  re- 
spectable, safe  and  conservative  citizen.  He  had 
been  a  strict,  though  not  an  aggressive  party  man, 
and  whenever  Logan  County  wished  a  name  to 
juggle  with  in  conventions,  they  chose  the  name 
of  General  William  M.  Barrett,  knowing  that  he 
would  not  object,  and  so  long  as  he  was  not 
nominated,  that  no  one  else  could  object.  He 
had  never  been  elected  to  an  office  of  profit,  and 
he  had  never  been  an  avowed  candidate  for  any, 


In  Convention  Assembled      291 

though  he  had  served  on  the  school  board  and  on 
all  the  public  committees,  in  addition  to  being  in- 
vited to  deliver  orations  on  Decoration  Day,  yet 
he  was  ever  in  a  calm  and  receptive  mood,  and 
while  Logan  County  delegations  had  never  gone 
so  far  as  to  nominate  him  for  anything,  he  seemed 
never  to  doubt  the  sincerity  of  their  support.  But 
there  comes  a  time  in  the  career  of  the  men  whose 
names  are  continually  before  conventions  when 
the  lightning  strikes  them,  and  both  Rankin  and 
Randolph  saw  that  the  present  hour  was  charged 
with  just  such  a  possibility. 

The  delegates  had  voted  and  now  sat  awaiting 
the  delivery  of  the  first  ballot.  Hale  began  to  call 
the  roll  of  the  counties. 

"DeWitt?"  Hale  called. 

"Eighteen  votes  for  Conrad  Sprague." 

"Logan?" 

O'Malley  was  up. 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  he  said,  "on  behalf  of  the  solid 
delegation  from  Logan  County  I  cast  twenty-four 
votes  for  General  William  M.  Barrett."  O'Malley 
winked  at  Rankin  as  he  sat  down. 

"Mason?" 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  cried  McKimmon,  emulative 
of  O'Malley,  "on  behalf  of  the  solid  delegation 
from  Mason  County  I  have  the  honor  to  cast  her 
eighteen  votes  for  our  present  able  congressman. 
Honorable  Jerome  B.  Garwood!" 

And  Rankin  started  a  cheer. 

"Moultrie?" 

Randolph  was  standing  prominently  In  the  mid- 


292  The  13  th   District 

die  aisle,  or  what  had  been  an  aisle  early  in  the 
day. 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  he  said,  in  heavy  tones,  "Moul- 
trie County  gives  her  fifteen  votes  to  our  next 
congressman,  Honorable  Conrad  Sprague," 

And  then  the  Sprague  delegations  cheered. 

"Piatt?"  the  roll-call  proceeded. 

"Sprague  fifteen  votes!" 

"Polk?" 

Rankin  had  taken  a  seat,  and  sat  w^ith  his  fat 
elbows  on  his  fat  knees.  He  had  been  keeping  the 
count  in  his  mind,  as  Randolph  had  been  keeping 
it  on  a  scrap  of  paper.  He  knew  what  he  had,  and 
he  knew  that  when  Sprague  received  the  twenty- 
three  votes  Pusey  would  deliver  to  him,  Sprague 
would  be  in  the  lead.  Pusey  had  passed  his  old 
straw  hat  for  the  ballots,  and  it  had  ground  Ran- 
kin to  have  to  drop  his  own  vote  in  it,  held  as  it 
was  by  the  man  who  now  usurped  the  place  in 
the  Polk  County  delegation  he  had  held  for  so 
many  years.    Pusey  arose,  and  his  thin  voice  piped: 

"Mr.  Chairman,  Polk  County  casts  twenty-two 
votes  for  Garwood,  and  twenty-three  for  Bar- 
rett." Rankin  looked  up.  Randolph,  who  had 
been  preparing  to  order  a  volley  of  cheers  for  his 
candidate,  stood  stricken  dumb.  The  vote  came 
as  a  surprise  to  everybody,  but  more  than  all  to 
the  Logan  County  men.  They  were  nonplussed. 
They  had  nominated  Barrett  with  a  little  more, 
perhaps,  than  their  usual  sincerity,  but  they  had 
merely  gone  to  him  temporarily  in  order  to  put 
themselves  in  a  controlling  position  between  the 


In  Convention  Assembled      293 

other  two  candidates.  Pusey,  who  had  been  count- 
ed for  Sprague  by  all,  now  held  the  balance  of 
power.  Hale  looked  up  as  if  there  had  been  some 
mistake.  At  last  Rankin,  smiling  sardonically,  and, 
as  it  were,  to  himself,  arose  and  lumbered  into  the 
aisle  near  Randolph.  As  he  steered  past  the 
Sprague  leader,  still  dumfounded,  he  said,  with  no 
attempt  to  conceal  his  words: 

"I  told  you,  Hal,  you  couldn't  depend  on  the 
little  cuss." 

The  Singed  Cat  smote  his  gavel  down. 

"The  convention — will  be — in  order.  Let — the 
roll-call — proceed." 

"Tazewell?" 

"Thirty  votes  for  Garwood." 

And  then  while  Hale  was  footing  his  three  little 
columns,  conversation  hummed  again  among  the 
delegates. 

Pusey  sat  quietly  tracing  his  mysterious  figures 
on  the  floor  with  the  point  of  his  little  stick, 

Rankin  had  paused  by  Hale's  table  where 
Cowley  sat.  Rankin  smiled  down  on  the  corre- 
spondent. 

"Case  o'  buy,  heh?"  he  said.    "What?" 

Cowley  shrugged  his  shoulders  expressively,  like 
a  foreigner. 

"What?"  Rankin  repeated,  his  teeth  showing 
in  a  broad  significant  grin. 

Hale  had  written  the  result  on  a  slip  of  paper 
and  passed  it  up  to  Bailey.  The  Singed  Cat  took 
it,  and  studied  it. 

"On  this  ballot,"  he  began  presently^  "there  have 


294  The  13  th   District 

— been  cast — one  hundred  and  sixty-five  votes; 
necessary — to  a  choice,  eighty-three.  Of  these, 
Mr.  Garwood  —  has  —  received  —  seventy,  Mr. 
Sprague — forty-eight,  and  General  Barrett  forty- 
seven.  No  candidate — having  received — the  neces- 
sary number — of  votes,  there  has  been — no  nomi- 
nation— and  you  will,  therefore — prepare  your 
votes — for  another  ballot." 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  Rankin  said,  with  a  prompt- 
ness that  recognized  the  change  in  the  situation. 

"The  gentleman — from  Polk." 

"Mr.  Chairman,  I  move  that  the  convention  do 
now  adjourn  until  to-morrow  morning  at  nine 
o'clock." 

The  motion  prevailed.  The  sun  was  a  red  ball, 
hanging  low  beyond  the  river.  It  seemed  that  the 
hour  was  the  hottest  of  the  afternoon,  Pusey  was 
sitting  there  moving  his  wrinkled  jaws  and  puck- 
ered lips  over  his  tobacco,  as  inscrutably  as  the 
Singed  Cat  himself  might  have  done,  had  he 
chewed  tobacco.  It  would  take  a  night  to  find  the 
bearings  that  had  been  lost  that  afternoon. 


XIII 


GENERAL  BARRETT,  hearing  from  Pekin 
that  his  county's  delegation  had  taken  par- 
donable liberties  with  his  name  at  the  con- 
vention, arrived  on  an  evening  train,  and  though 
his  quiescent  absence  would  have  suited  his  sup- 
porters better,  they  welcomed  him  at  the  old  sta- 
tion with  as  much  enthusiasm  as  they  could  gener- 
ate on  so  short  a  notice.  The  general  drove  to  the 
hotel  in  a  carriage,  and  when  he  entered  the  office 
bowed  seriously,  playing  well  the  part  of  the  dis- 
tinguished and  respectable  leader  whom  the  voice 
of  the  people  had  summoned.  To  Cowley,  who 
interviewed  him  when  his  headquarters  had  been 
opened,  he  said  solemnly  that  he  was  in  the  hands 
of  his  friends,  that  he  considered  this  a  fair  field 
and  an  open  contest,  and  esteemed  his  own  oppor- 
tunities to  be  as  favorable  as  those  of  either  of  the 
other  distinguished  and  able  candidates. 

All  through  the  hot  night  the  rooms  of  the  three 
candidates  blazed.  Delegates  hung  about  them  as 
the  nocturnal  bugs  wheeling  in  on  heavy  wing 
from  the  darkness  outside  fluttered  around  the 
coal  oil  lights,  though  not  all  of  them  stuck  as 
closely  to  the  flame  that  had  brought  them  thither 
as  did  those  hapless  insects  whose  tragic  fate  mat- 
ted their  wings  at  last  to  the  oily  glass  bowls  of 
the  lamps.  The  general  remained  in  his  room, 
295 


296  The  13  th   District 

democratically,  where  all  could  see  him  and  grasp 
his  hand,  and  doubtless  derived  as  much  satisfac- 
tion from  these  little  levees  as  if  he  were  holding 
larger  and  more  significant  ones.  Both  Sprague 
and  Garwood  had  other  rooms  opening  off  those 
where  the  public  were  invited  to  gather  and  par- 
ticipate freely  in  the  distribution  of  campaign 
cigars  that  stood  in  boxes  on  the  center  tables. 

Garwood  sat  on  the  tumbled  bed  in  his  inner 
room,  pale  and  haggard.  A  cigar  fumed  constantly 
in  his  teeth.  A  tray  of  whisky  glasses  lay  on  the 
table.  With  Garwood  were  Rankin  and  Bailey. 
They  had  gone  over  the  situation  again  and  again. 
Delegate  after  delegate  had  been  led  in  to  inter- 
view the  congressman,  every  argument,  every  per- 
suasion, every  threat  that  the  three  men  could  de- 
vise had  been  used.  But  they  made  no  appreciable 
headway.  They  had  seventy  votes  and  they  felt 
that  they  could  hold  them_,  for  Rankin  vouched  for 
the  twenty-two  men  from  Polk,  the  Singed  Cat 
was  calmly  certain  of  his  eighteen  votes  from  Ma- 
son, and  Hale  scouted  the  idea  of  any  one  of  the 
thirty  Tazewell  fellows  failing.  The  remaining 
votes  were  so  evenly  divided  between  Garwood's 
opponents  that  each  would  hesitate  to  go  to  the 
other.  Any  coalition  with  the  Sprague  men  was 
impossible;  they  were  as  determined  as  Garwood's 
own.  They  must  look  for  strength  to  the  Barrett 
following.  They  considered  Pusey,  and  the  twenty- 
three  votes  he  controlled. 

"Can't  you  see  him,  Jim?"  Garwood  suggested 
to  Rankin. 


In  Convention  Assembled      297 

The  big  man  spat  and  shook  his  head. 

'*It  'uld  do  no  good  fer  me  to  see  him.  I'd  hate 
to  speak  to  the  little  cur,  anyway." 

"Well,  look  here,  Jim,  you  mustn't  let  any  per- 
sonal feeling  stand  in  the  way  of  our  success,"  Gar- 
wood snarled.  He  was  growing  peevish  from  the 
heat,  the  strain,  the  anxiety.  Rankin  laughed,  as 
if  at  the  whim  of  a  child. 

"Don't  worry  'bout  me,  Jerry,"  he  said.  He 
had  dropped  back  into  his  own  old  way  of  calling 
Garwood  by  his  familiar  name  since  the  contest  for 
renom.ination  had  brought  the  congressman  down 
to  the  hard  earth  again.  "I'll  play  my  end  of  the 
game.     Let  Zeph  here  see  him." 

They  considered  in  turn  the  twenty-four  men 
from  Logan  County.  O'Malley  was  sent  for,  and 
came^  half  fearfully,  reporting  that  his  hands  were 
tied  by  the  exigencies  of  affairs  in  his  own  county. 
He  was  half  afraid  to  be  seen  at  Garwood's  head- 
quarters, lest  suspicion  stab  him,  though  a  com- 
bination by  which  Garwood,  when  he  knew  his 
own  chances  were  gone,  would  throw  his  strength 
to  Barrett  was  the  one  practical  thing  to  do. 

With  such  manoeuvering  the  night  wore  away. 
Garwood  could  reach  no  agreement  with  the  Bar- 
rett men.  Bailey  saw  Pusey,  but  the  little  editor 
was  wily,  he  was  playing  some  strange  game  of 
his  own,  and  he  sent  word  that  if  Garwood  wished 
to  see  him,  to  come  himself.  What  his  game  was 
none  of  them  could  find  out;  they  did  not  think 
him  at  all  sincere  in  his  support  of  Barrett,  and 
hourly  feared  that  he  might  draw  Barrett's  forces 


298  The  13  th   District 

into  the  Sprague  column.  Meanwhile,  Pusey's 
political  attitude  was  that  of  one  who  had  simply 
taken  refuge  in  the  peaceful  eddy  that  swam  in 
the  wake  of  Barrett's  utter  respectability  and  avail- 
ability, until  some  definite  turn  should  be  taken 
'by  the  current.  Towards  morning  some  of  the 
tired  delegates  declared  truces,  and  arranged  poker 
games.  Their  clicking  chips  could  be  heard  on 
all  that  second  floor  of  the  hotel.  And  some  of 
them  went  out  under  the  purple  sky  of  a  summer 
night,  a  sky  studded  with  brilliant  stars.  Leo  was 
low  in  the  west,  the  moon  swam  in  a  sea  of  silver 
along  the  horizon.  They  heard  the  calming  voice 
of  insects,  they  felt  the  breeze  of  the  night  on  their 
brows. 

The  morning  came,  with  its  brazen  sky.  Once 
more  the  white  clouds  mounted  in  the  west  as  if 
trying  again  for  rain,  and  the  day  wore  on  like 
the  one  before,  without  change.  The  sun  blazed 
on  high,  seeming  tO'  shrink  in  its  own  fierce  daz- 
zling concentration  as  it  flashed  its  rays  into  that 
hot  court  room  where  the  convention  sat  and  bal- 
loted, one  ballot  after  another,  until  a  hundred, 
two  hundred,  five  hundred,  had  been  taken,  until 
the  floor  was  strewn  with  paper  and  discolored 
by  tobacco,  the  air  heavy  with  smoke,  the  feculence 
of  all  their  breathing,  the  acrid  smell  of  perspira- 
tion. The  sky  darkened,  and  those  tired  men 
sighed  for  rain.  The  thunder  rolled  down  the  val- 
ley of  the  Illinois,  and  then  ceased.  The  sky 
cleared,  and  the  heat  increased.  And  all  the  while 
the  ballots  which  Hale  announced  were  the  same: 


In  Convention  Assembled      299 

Garwood  Sprague  Barrett 

DeWitt 18 

Logan   24 

Mason    i8 

Moultrie    15 

Piatt   15 

Polk    22  23 

Tazewell   30 

Totals    70  48  47 


XIV 


THURSDAY  came  and  another  day  with  its 
oppressive  heat  and  even  more  oppressive 
suspense  wore  away;  and  still  another  came 
and  wore  away  like  the  one  before  it.  The  week 
was  marching  by,  and  the  delegates  were  no  nearer 
a  choice  than  when  they  first  began.  The  conven- 
tion had  taken  twelve  hundred  and  sixty  ballots; 
more  than  had  been  taken  at  the  Clinton  conven- 
tion two  years  before.  Still  the  ballot  was  un- 
changed, Garwood  seventy,  Sprague  forty-eight, 
Barrett  forty-seven. 

Evening  came,  and  the  delegates,  drawn  and 
spent,  refused  to  hold  a  night  session.  They 
trudged  back  to  the  hotel,  and  resumed  the  tire- 
some rounds  of  the  headquarters,  the  fruitless  con- 
ferences, the  profitless  scheming.  They  gathered 
in  groups  in  the  hotel  office,  filling  the  air  with 
their  cigar  smoke.  The  noise  of  conversation  as- 
cended to  the  floors  above,  but  it  no  longer  was 
lightened  by  laughter;  now  it  had  a  harsh,  angry 
note  of  contest.  Surely  the  strain  could  not  last 
much  longer.  It  must  end  as  must  the  insatiable 
heat. 

Up  in  Garwood's  room  they  had  tried  all  their 
arts  again,  and  again  they  had  all  proved  unsuc- 
cessful. They  had  approached  Pusey,  and  he  had 
shuffled  away  with  his  impenetrable  air,  they  had 
300 


In  Convention  Assembled      301 

sounded  the  Logan  County  delegation,  but  found 
that  the  whim  which  had  led  it  to  bring  out  Bar- 
rett had  now  developed,  under  the  pressure  of  the 
long  unbroken  deadlock,  into  an  unaccountable 
opposition  to  Garwood,  that  had  in  it  all  the  bit- 
terness of  a  personal  aversion.  The  Sprague  men, 
of  course,  were  utterly  out  of  the  question,  and  the 
only  consolation  they  had  was  that  Garwood  was 
still  in  the  lead,  and  that  his  delegates,  upon  be- 
ing canvassed  once  more,  declared  that  they  would 
"go  down  into  the  last  ditch  with  Jerry."  To  Gar- 
wood it  seemed  that  they  were  in  the  last  ditch 
then.  Each  new  step  in  the  hall  seemed  to  him 
the  coming  of  the  news  that  Sprague  and  Barrett 
had  coalesced.  He  felt  the  need  of  instant  action. 
The  strain  was  telling  even  on  Rankin,  but  he 
was  never  idle.  Most  of  the  men  in  Garwood's 
rooms  had  visibly  relaxed,  and  some  one,  feeling 
no  doubt  that  they  were  about  to  settle  down  to 
one  of  those  long  deadlocks  that  last  for  weeks, 
had  suggested  a  game  of  poker,  and  had  asked 
Rankin  to  join  in  it. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I've  got  my  work  to  do.  I  must 
see  some  fellers  to-night.  You  boys  play,  though," 
he  added  in  his  kindly  way.  "The  judge  here'll  play 
with  you.     You  play,  don't  you,  Zeph?" 

"Well,"  the  Singed  Cat  drawled,  "Fm  better'n 
a — green  hand." 

And  so  they  got  out  the  chips.  It  all  irritated 
Garwood  beyond  endurance.  He  slung  on  his  coat 
savagely,  and  seized  his  hat.  For  them  to  sit 
calmly  down  to  play  cards  while  he  was  in  fhat 


302  The  13  th   District 

clutch  of  circumstance,  was  more  than  he  could 
bear. 

"I'm  going  out  awhile,"  he  flung  at  them. 

"That's  right,  Jerry,"  said  Rankin,  "that's  the 
thing  for  you  to  do.  The  exercise'll  do  you  good. 
I'm  goin'  to  see  O'Malley  after  while — I'll  look 
after  things.     Stay  long's  you  want." 

And  Garwood  left,  swearing.  Down  the  hallway 
he  heard  the  click  of  the  chips  of  other  games;  at 
Barrett's  room  he  had  a  glimpse  of  the  old  man 
sitting  in  all  his  dignity  with  some  of  the  boys 
from  Logan  County  leaning  over  him.  Sprague's 
door,  too,  was  open;  he  caught  the  laughter  with- 
in, and  as  he  passed,  he  suddenly  beheld  O'Malley 
and  Knowlton  talking  with  Randolph.  The  scene 
was  etched  on  his  mind,  the  three  men  standing 
there  in  the  bright  light,  the  hats  of  O'Malley  and 
Knowlton  thrown  back,  Randolph  bareheaded,  his 
coat  and  waistcoat  ofif,  his  long  cravat  unknotted, 
and  dangling  over  his  soiled  bosom.  As  he  passed 
he  heard  Knowlton  say: 

"All  right  then,  Hal." 

Garwood  hastened  on.  Hot  as  the  little  old 
hotel  was,  he  broke  into  a  cold  sweat.  The  very 
thing  he  had  feared  was  coming  to  pass!  And 
they  were  so  open  about  it,  too! 

His  first  thought  was  to  turn  back  and  rouse 
Rankin,  but  a  strange  childish  fear  of  Randolph 
seized  him,  ,a  morbid  dread  of  being  seen  by  any 
of  his  opponents  just  then,  and  he  kept  on. 

When  he  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs,  Gar- 
wood saw  Pusey  shambling  across  the  office,  tap- 


In  Convention  Assembled      303 

ping  his  little  cane  on  the  floor,  as  a  blind  man 
might,  though  he  did  it  meditatively,  as  if  he  were 
striking  at  the  crawling  flies  instead  of  the  cock- 
roaches from  which  he  was  separated.  Garwood 
stiffened  at  the  sight  of  this  old  enemy.  His  breath 
came  fast,  his  cold  sweat  was  succeeded  by  a  flush 
of  heat,  and  then: 

"Oh,  Pusey!"  he  called. 

The  editor  turned.  His  quick  eye  caught  the 
congressman  on  the  stairs. 

"Heh?"  he  said. 

Garwood  descended,  with  dignity  now,  for  he 
was  emerging  into  public  view  again.  The  editor 
drew  slowly  toward  the  staircase.     They  met. 

"I'm  going  for  a  little  walk — thought  maybe  the 
night  air  might  refresh  me.     Care  to  go  along?" 

"Don't  care  if  I  do,"  said  Pusey. 

The  office  was  deserted  by  all  save  the  landlord 
who  snoozed  behind  his  counter,  the  insects  that 
buzzed  around  the  lamps,  and  the  flies  that  walked 
like  somnambulists  across  the  ceiling,  and  on  the 
walls.  The  two  men  sauntered  carelessly  toward 
the  side  door. 

Once  outside  Garwood  sniffed  in  eagerly  the 
night  air  that  bathed  his  brow. 

"Isn't  it  a  bit  cooler?"  he  said. 

"Don't  know  but  it  is,"  acquiesced  Pusey.  "Heat 
don't  bother  me  much,  though." 

The  sky  was  black  overhead,  not  a  star  was  to 
be  seen.  In  the  west,  now  and  then,  a  glare  of 
heat  lightning  trembled  over  all  the  sky,  pho- 
tographing for  them  instantly  the  strange  roofs, 


304  The  i3th  District 

the  strange  chimneys,  the  black  outline  of  strange 
trees,  beginning  to  lurch  slowly  like  elephants,  in 
the  little  wind  that  stirred. 

"I  believe  there's  a  breeze,"  Garwood  said.  He 
was  still  sniffing  the  night  air  like  an  animal. 
"Rain,  too,  in  that  air,  eh?" 

Pusey  tapped  along  on  the  old  brick  sidewalk 
with  his  little  stick  and  said  nothing, 

"Have  a  cigar?"  said  Garwood  presently. 

"Don't  care  if  I  do,"  said  Pusey,  throwing  away, 
the  one  he  was  smoking.  They  paused,  a  match 
scratched  on  a  heel  threw  the  ruddier  lightning 
of  its  own  tiny  flame  upon  their  faces  and  then 
their  cigars  glowed  in  the  darkness,  and  left  be- 
hind them  a  fragrance  that  no  other  cigar  in  Pekin 
could  exhale,  nor  any  perhaps,  outside  a  certain 
cigar  store  in  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  where  Gar- 
wood owed  a  bill. 

"Let's  go  toward  the  river,  Pusey,"  said  Gar- 
wood.   "I  fancy  it'll  be  cooler  there." 

"Don't  care  if  I  do,"  said  Pusey. 


The  storm  had  come  at  last;  the  long  heat  was 
broken.  Overhead  the  thunder  pealed  up  and 
down  its  whole  wide  diapason,  booming  now  and 
then  with  new  explosions,  then  rolling  away  in 
awful  melody  into  some  distant  quarter  of  the 
broken  heavens.  The  lightning  crackled  in  long 
streams  of  fire  that  zigzagged  down  the  black  sky, 
reaching  from  heaven  to  earth,  and  in  its  after- 
glare  the  clouds   that  flew  so  low  showed  their 


In  Convention  Assembled      305 

gray  scud.  The  rain  fell  with  a  dead  incessant 
drumming  on  the  earth,  warm  as  new  milk,  and  all 
green  things  stirred  rapturously  as  they  drank 
it  in. 

Down  on  the  banks  of  the  Illinois  River  Garwood 
stood  and  looked  on  the  dark  waters.  In  the  con- 
stant play  of  the  lightning  he  saw  the  trees  on  the 
other  shore  bending  their  round  heads  to  the  wind; 
he  could  see  even  their  green  leaves  distinct  in 
the  dazzling  white  light.  He  saw  once  some  warm, 
earthly  gleam  shining  in  some  window  he  would 
never  know.  He  caught  now  and  then  the  outline 
of  some  house-boat,  rude  dwelling  of  the  river- 
people,  stirring  uneasily  at  its  moorings.  Once  he 
saw  the  wild  sails  of  one  of  the  wind  mills  erected 
by  the  German  settlers  of  that  region,  brought 
with  them,  as  it  were,  from  their  home  far  across 
the  seas,  and  once  again  in  a  glare  more  lasting 
and  vivid  than  any  other,  he  saw  a  telegraph  pole 
lifting  itself  for  an  instant  to  his  vision,  spread- 
ing its  arms,  and  it  reminded  him  of  a  cross  on  a 
hill,  some  new  Golgotha.  He  closed  his  eyes  and 
looked  that  way  no  more. 

Behind  him  a  crazy  street  that  scrambled  up 
from  the  water's  edge  led  back  to  the  heart  of  the 
town.  The  small  houses  showed  cheerful  lights, 
now  and  then  a  laugh  was  borne  to  him  from  some 
person  humanly  glad  of  the  relief  the  rain  had 
brought.  Then,  in  a  fresh  illumination,  he  saw 
the  court  house  where  the  fates  were  playing 
with  him.  The  storm  raged,  the  lightning  raced 
in  sheets  of  flame  along  the  river,  and  though  the 


3o6  The  i3th   District 

winds  lashed  the  rain  up  and  down  its  bosom  like 
a  broom,  the  drops  fell  so  heavily  that  the  surface 
of  the  waters  was  smooth  and  placid  as  on  a  sum- 
mer afternoon,  only  dimpled  with  the  infinite  drops. 
The  congressman  stood  in  the  lush  wet  grass, 
the  water  running  off  his  broad  hat  in  little  rivu- 
lets, but  he  soaked  himself  to  the  skin,  and  drank 
in  the  rain,  like  all  other  life  about  him.  He  stood 
there  long,  as  though  defying  the  storm.  He  fold- 
ed his  arms  in  tragic  attitudes.  His  thoughts 
flashed  here  and  there  over  his  whole  life,  illu- 
minating for  him  scenes  that  stood  vivid  in  mem- 
ory just  as  the  lightning  showed  him  the  court 
house,  the  trees  across  the  river,  the  shanty  boat, 
the  wind  mill,  the  Golgotha  of  the  telegraph  pole. 
He  thought  of  his  first  convention,  of  the  day  he 
waited  in  the  Harkness  drawing-room  and  saw  old 
Jasper  working  in  the  yard;  of  that  election  night 
in  Chicago,  of  his  place  in  the  House  at  Washing- 
ton; he  thought  of  Rankin,  of  his  mother,  of 
Emily,  of  his  boy — ah,  the  boy! 

The  lightning  glared.  His  eye  caught  the  tele- 
graph pole  again,  he  saw  the  cross,  leaning  at  an 
awful  angle  on  the  hill;  he  shuddered  and  pulled 
down  the  brim  of  his  hat  and  went  away. 

When  he  entered  the  hotel,  the  new  Hfe  brought 
by  the  rain  was  apparent  in  the  new  energy  dis- 
played by  the  politicians.  They  had  gathered  in- 
doors. Garwood  heard  them  joking,  he  heard 
them  laughing.  There  was  industry  everywhere. 
The  headquarters  were  full.  In  his  own  room,  the 
poker  game  was  in  progress.     The  chips  clicked 


In  Convention  Assembled      307 

merrily.  Even  Rankin  had  succumbed  and  sat  at 
the  table,  a  pile  of  the  red  and  blue  disks  before 
him.  His  coat  and  waistcoat  and  collar,  even  his 
shoes,  were  of¥;  his  suspenders  hung  at  his  hips, 
his  great  body  was  all  relaxed.  The  windows  were 
open,  the  dirty  curtains  streamed  on  the  wind  that 
blew  in,  and  the  floor  was  wet  where  the  rain  had 
sprinkled  it  unrestrained.  Rankin  was  laughing, 
joying  in  the  rain. 

"Ain't  it  great?"  he  said  in  his  bass  voice.  And 
he  shook  himself  to  relish  the  sensation  of  cool- 
ness after  all  the  week  of  insufferable  heat. 

The  Singed  Cat  sat  on  a  hard,  rigid  chair,  his 
coat  still  on,  impervious  as  ever  to  the  little  dis- 
comforts of  life. 

"This  game,"  he  drawled,  raising  an  eye  to  Gar- 
wood, "seems  to  be — for  the  purpose — of  deter- 
mining— ^whether — these  fellows — get  my  money 
—or  I  get  their— I  O  U's." 

And  the  room  rang  loudly  with  the  laughter. 

Garwood  stood,  dripping  with  water,  and  looked 
at  them  in  wonderment. 

"Heat  spell's  broken,"  Rankin  said  presently. 
"Wisht  the  deadlock  was.  Maybe,  though,  the 
rain  'ill  fetch  us  luck.    What  d'ye  think,  Jerry?" 

Garwood  looked  at  him  as  if  he  did  not  know 
what  the  man  had  said. 


XV 


THE  storm  ceased  just  before  daybreak,  and 
the  light  that  slowly  spread  over  the  prairie 
to  the  eastward  suffused  a  new  world.  The 
water  dripped  musically  from  the  trees,  the  robins 
sang,  the  frogs  croaked  comfortably  along  the  wet 
banks  of  the  river,  and  the  morning  poured  down 
its  green  valley  an  air  that  sparkled  like  champagne. 
The  convention  met  again  at  nine  o'clock,  but  it 
seemed  another  convention.  The  delegates  arrived 
early,  and  they,  too,  seemed  to  have  been  made 
over  like  the  world,  for  they  entered,  even  the  eldest 
of  them,  with  a  new  spring  in  their  steps,  and  it  was 
to  be  noticed  that  they  had  been  shaved  and  wore 
clean  linen. 

The  court  room  had  been  swept  of  all  its  litter, 
and  the  fioor  was  still  damp  with  the  fancy  scrolls 
the  janitor  had  written  with  water  from  his  sprink- 
ling-can, as  if  it  had  been  some  new  kind  of 
fountain  pen.  The  chairs  were  set  in  a  fine  amphi- 
theater, so  orderly  that  the  delegates  sat  down  in 
them  carefully,  as  if,  possessed  by  a  new  sense  of 
harmony,  they  feared  to  destroy  the  pleasing  ar- 
rangement of  things.  Even  the  cigars  they  puffed, 
sending  their  white  smoke  gracefully  up  into  the 
lively  air,  had  gained  a  fragrance.  The  delegates 
had  forgotten  the  animosities  of  the  past  few  days, 
308 


In  Convention  Assembled      309 

and  they  joked  each  other  as  they  met  again  on 
the  old  brotherly  footing. 

Rankin  was  there  with  an  enormous  fresh  col- 
lar lying  down  about  his  neck.  He  had  left  off 
his  waistcoat,  and  the  white  shirt  his  wife  had 
packed  in  his  little  traveling-bag  when  he  started 
from  home  was  now  at  last  donned  in  obedience  to 
her  parting  mandate,  and  unhidden  as  it  was,  gave 
to  the  world  a  broad  and  convincing  proof  of  his 
domestic  discipline.  Randolph,  too,  was  immacu- 
late, while  young  Knowlton  was  almost  senatorial 
in  freshly  brushed  black  clothes  and  linen  that  had 
the  metallic  gloss  of  the  laundry  machine  on  it. 

"Well,  Jim,"  Randolph  called  across  the  room, 
"going  to  withdraw  your  candidate  this  morning, 
ain't  you?" 

"No,  I'm  goin'  to  withdraw  yourn." 

"What  do  you  say  to  withdrawing  them  all  and 
uniting  on  you?  You'd  make  a  noble  congress- 
man." 

"You  bet  I  would,"  Rankin  responded,  "but  I 
couldn't  afiford  to  give  the  job  all  my  time  fer  the 
money  the's  in  it." 

"Of  course  not,"  Randolph  flung  back  at  him, 
"but  you  might  sublet  it  to  me." 

"Well,  I  might  git  you  a  job  shovelin'  wind  off 
the  Capitol,  only  I  reckon  you  wouldn't  da'st  leave 
that  lucrative  law  practice  o'  yourn,  heh?" 

The  delegates  around  laughed  at  the  old,  old 
jokes  with  which  they  chafifed  each  other. 

"What  do  you  say  to  unitin'  on  Grant  here? 


310  The  13th   District 

That  speech  o'  his  t'other  day  'uld  tease  the  whole 
surplus  out  o'  the  treasury," 

Knowlton  blushed.  Perhaps  his  heart  swelled 
for  a  second  at  the  mere  thought,  for,  like  all 
young  lawyers,  he  had  his  ambitions,  with  the 
dome  of  the  Capitol  at  Washington  in  the  per- 
spective of  his  dreams. 

But  the  Singed  Cat  was  leaning  over  the 
judge's  desk  again  and  his  little  eyes,  out  of  his  thin 
serious  face,  swept  the  circle  of  chairs  before  him. 
His  gavel  fell. 

"The  convention — will  be — in  order,"  he  said  in 
his  penetrating  voice.  And  then  he  paused  and 
looked  solemnly  about.  "The  chair — desires  to  re- 
mind— the  convention — "  he  continued,  and  the 
delegates  looked  up  in  alarm,  "that  the  administra- 
tion— at  Washington — has  redeemed — its  promise 
— of  prosperity — to  the  farmer — by.  sending — the 
former — and  latter  rain — upon  the  earth — in  due 
season,  which  shows — what  the  party — can  do — in 
the  way — of  keeping  promises — when  it  gets — its 
hand  in." 

The  convention  laughed.  Men  were  one  with 
all  nature  in  being  glad  that  morning.  Then  the 
chairman  continued  gravely  as  before: 

"Proceeding  upon — the  regular  order — another 
ballot — for  nomination — of  a  representative — in 
Congress — will  be  taken.  Gentlemen — will  pre- 
pare— their  ballots,  and  the  secretary — will  call — 
the  roll." 

And  Hale,  for  the  twelve  hundred  and  sixty-first 
time,  began  his  monotonous  repetition. 


In  Convention  Assembled      311 

"DeWitt?" 

"Sprague,  eighteen." 

The  chairmen  long  ago  had  ceased  to  poll  their 
delegations  or  to  make  the  formal  announcements 
they  had  found  so  pleasant  when  they  first  began. 
They  had  long  been  answering  the  roll-call  in  a 
fixed  perfunctory  manner,  as  a  bailiff  opens  court 
by  a  formula  that  has  grown  meaningless^  and  will 
know  no  change  as  long  as  institutions  last. 

"Logan?" 

"Twenty-four  for  Barrett." 

"Mason?" 

"Garwood,  eighteen," 

Some  of  the  delegates  had  strolled  to  the  open 
windows  and  stood  leaning  idly  on  the  sills,  looking 
out  on  the  wonderful  morning. 

"Mouhrie?" 

"Fifteen,  Sprague." 

"Piatt?" 

"Sprague,  fifteen." 

"Polk?" 

Pusey  arose. 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  he  said  In  his  weak  voice. 
Delegates  near  him  looked  up,  Randolph  crouched 
like  a  lynx,  then  rose  on  bent  knees,  with  an  alert 
inquiry  in  his  eyes. 

"On  behalf  of  the  delegation  from  Polk  County," 
Pusey  continued,  "I  cast  the  solid  forty-five  votes 
for  Jerome  B.  Garwood." 

Hale,  leaning  listlessly  on  an  elbow,  his  head  in 
his  hand,  gazing  away  like  an  abstracted  schoolboy 
through  the  open  windows  as  if  the  woods  and 


312  The  13th  District 

fields  beckoned  him  from  irksome  routine  tasks, 
had  been  calling  the  roll  from  memory,  and  keep- 
ing no  tally,  for  he  knew  the  formula  perfectly  by 
this  time.  But  he  looked  up,  startled.  Rankin 
tilted  back  in  his  chair,  let  it  come  down  suddenly, 
its  legs  striking  the  floor  with  a  bang;  his  jaw 
fell.  Knowlton  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  face  written 
all  over  with  surprise,  and  Randolph,  his  eyes 
ablaze,  quickly  straightening  his  legs  and  raising 
himself  on  his  toes  broke  the  startled  stillness  by 
crying  excitedly: 

"Mr.  Chairman!" 

There  was  a  scraping  of  chairs,  a  hum  of  voices, 
that  ascended  immediately  to  a  roar,  and  then  a 
score  of  men  began  to  shout  crazily: 

"Mr.  Chairman!    Mr.  Chairman!" 

Pusey  had  seated  himself,  he  was  as  indififerent 
as  ever.  And  Rankin  could  only  stare  at  him  in 
stupefaction. 

The  Singed  Cat  alone  was  unmoved  by  the 
startling  climax  to  all  those  withering  days  of  heat 
and  suspense.  He  hammered  the  desk  with  his 
gavel  and  said: 

"The  convention — again — ^will  be — in  order.  Let 
the  roll-call  proceed." 

And  Hale  called  loudly  amid  the  din  that  would 
not  subside: 

"Tazewell?" 

The  chairman  of  that  delegation  shouted: 

"Thirty  votes  for  Garwood!" 

The  staid  old  court  room  with  all  its  traditions 
of  the  dignity  of  judicial  proceedings  was  in  an 


In  Convention  Assembled      313 

uproar.  The  whole  convention  was  on  its  feet, 
everybody  was  calHng:  "Mr.  Chairman."  From 
without,  men  to  whom  had  been  borne  by  some 
occult  transmission  of  intelligence  the  news  of  that, 
the  final  moment,  crowded  breathlessly  into  the 
room.  The  belief  that  the  morning  was  cool  had 
been  a  delusion.  Now  that  the  peace  induced  by 
universal  harmony  had  been  marred,  men  began 
to  perspire,  to  grow  red  in  the  face;  the  atmos- 
phere in  an  instant  had  become  stifling.  The  Gar- 
wood men  had  begun  to  cheer.  The  Sprague  men 
and  perhaps  the  little  group  of  Barrett's  support- 
ers, foiled  in  whatever  their  original  purpose  had 
been,  realized  that  they  were  defeated,  and  they 
raged  impotently.  Hale  was  hurriedly  casting  up 
his  easy  sum,  and  when  he  handed  the  slip  to  Bailey 
his  heart  leaped  with  the  thought  that  at  last  the 
Pekin  post-ofifice  was  his. 

The  Singed  Cat  deliberately  studied  his  figures, 
and  his  deliberation,  with  the  power  of  the  definite 
announcement  that  was  pending,  compelled  a  sud- 
den quiet  his  gavel  had  theretofore  been  unable  to 
invoke.  And  at  last,  in  the  suspense  which  was 
all  fictitious,  the  product  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  mania 
for  legal  forms,  he  said: 

"Upon  this  ballot,  General  William  M.  Barrett 
— has  received — twenty-four  votes,"  it  was  seen 
that  he  was  reversing  the  order  for  its  effect,  "Con- 
rad Sprague — forty-eight,  and  Jerome  B.  Garwood 
— ninety-three.  Mr.  Garwood — having  received — 
the  necessary  number — and  a  majority — of  all — the 
votes — cast — is    therefore — declared — to    be — the 


314  The  13th  District 

nominee — of  the  convention — for  Representative — 
in  Congress — for  tlie  Thirteentli  District — of  Illi- 
nois— for  the  term — beginning — the  fourth  day — 
of  March — ensuing." 

The  strain  was  over,  the  long  pent-up  emotions 
of  the  seventy  men  who  had  stood  solidly  for  Jerry 
Garwood,  and  now  had  won  victory  at  last,  broke 
forth,  and  they  flung  their  hats  into  the  air,  tore 
oflf  their  coats  to  wave  aloft,  brandished  chairs,  and 
pounded  one  another  on  the  back,  yelling  all  the 
time.  The  followers  of  Sprague  yelled  no  less  ex- 
citedly, though  their  rage  was  that  of  defeat.  Ran- 
dolph strode  to  where  Hale  was  sitting,  his  mouth 
stretched  wide  in  a  demented  yell,  and  pounded 
the  table  with  his  fist,  crying  unceasingly: 

"Mr.  Chairman!     Mr.  Chairman!" 

The  Singed  Cat  stood  leaning  as  he  had  leaned 
for  days,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  desk  he  had 
scarred  with  his  gavel.  For  ten  minutes,  and  it 
seemed  an  hour,  the  men  howled,  until  exhausted 
by  the  exertion  and  the  excitement,  their  voices 
failed,  and  they  collapsed  into  their  chairs.  But 
Randolph,  in  the  approximate  order  which  the  ex- 
haustion brought  about,  continued  to  cry,  until  at 
last  the  Singed  Cat's  voice  pierced  to  all  the  cor- 
ners of  the  court  house. 

"The  convention — will  be — in  order!  The  con- 
vention— has  not — yet  adjourned.  There  is — still 
— work — to  be  done." 

But  Randolph  continued  to  cry. 

"Gentlemen — will  resume — their  seats,"  Bailey 
said,  "before — they  can — be  recognized." 


In  Convention  Assembled      315 

Randolph  hesitated,  though  still  he  cried: 

"Mr.  Chairman!    Mr.  Chairman!" 

But  Bailey's  eye  forced  him  backward  to  his 
place,  and  when  he  had  retreated  to  the  midst  of 
the  Moultrie  County  delegation  the  chairman  said: 

"The  gentleman — from  Moultrie." 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  Randolph  said,  and  the  con- 
vention, supposing  he  was  about  to  observe  custom 
and  move  to  make  the  nomination  unanimous, 
Hstened.  "Mr.  Chairman,"  he  said,  "I  challenge 
the  vote  of  the  Polk  County  delegation." 

"The  gentleman — from  Moultrie — is  out — of 
order,"  the  Singed  Cat  promptly  ruled.  "None 
— but  a  member — of  the  Polk  County  delegation — 
can  challenge — its  vote." 

The  Sprague  men  seemed  about  to  gather  them- 
selves for  another  noisy  protest,  but  interest  had 
suddenly  veered  to  the  Logan  County  delegation. 
There  a  consultation  was  in  progress,  hurried  and 
eager,  and  out  of  it  Knowlton  arose,  and  his  splen- 
did bass  voice  boomed: 

"Mr.  Chairman!" 

"The  gentleman — from  Logan." 

"Mr.  Chairman,  I  move  you,  sir,  that  the  nom- 
ination of  Jerome  B.  Garwood  be  made  unani- 
mous." 

He  had  seized  the  only  little  chance  that  re- 
mained of  identifying  his  delegation  with  the  suc- 
cess of  the  nominee.  The  band  wagon  had  taken 
them  by  surprise  and  rolled  by  too  swiftly  for  them 
to  climb  in. 

"The  gentleman — from — Logan — moves — to  make 


3i6  The   13  th   District 

— the  nomination — of  the  Honorable — Jerome  B. 
Garwood — for  candidate — for  the  office — of  Rep- 
resentative— in  Congress — unanimous,"  said  the 
Singed  Cat,  yielding  not  a  word  of  all  his  formula. 
"Those  in  favor — will  say — 'Aye.'  " 

The  motion  carried,  of  course,  though  not  with- 
out a  great  shout  of  "Noes"  from  the  httle  band 
of  Sprague  men,  who  had  gathered  about  their 
leader,  looking  defiance  out  of  their  defeat.  The 
Garwood  men  had  wrung  the  moist  hand  of  Pusey, 
but  it  was  Rankin  whom  they  selected  for  the  cen- 
ter of  their  celebration.  As  they  crowded  about 
him,  they  pommeled  him,  pulled  him,  screamed  in 
his  ears;  they  would  have  liked  to  toss  him  to  their 
shoulders,  but  he  was  too  big  to  be  moved.  He 
could  only  sit  in  the  midst  of  all  their  clamor,  and 
stare  in  wonder  and  amaze  at  Pusey.  He,  to 
vv^hom  all  the  credit  for  the  victory  was  ascribed 
could  not  understand  it,  that  was  all.  But  presently 
when  he  heard  his  name  mentioned  officially,  he 
stirred.  Knowlton  had  moved  that  a  committee 
be  appointed  to  wait  on  Garwood  and  inform  him 
of  his  nomination,  and  what  Rankin  heard  was  the 
voice  of  Bailey  saying: 

"And  the  chair — appoints — as  members — of  the 
committee — Messrs.  Knowlton  of  Logan — Ran- 
dolph of  Moultrie— and  Rankin  of  Polk." 

The  committee  found  their  nominee  in  his  room 
at  the  hotel.  He  was  sitting  calmly  by  his  open 
window  looking  into  the  green  boughs  of  the  elm 
trees  that  grew  along  that  side  of  the  old  hostelry. 
An  open  book  lay  on  his  knee,  and  having  calm- 


In  Convention  Assembled      317 

ly  called  "Come  in!"  in  answer  to  the  knock  at  the 
door,  he  looked  up  as  they  entered,  as  if  they  had 
interrupted  the  meditations  of  a  statesman. 

"Ah,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  rising. 

He  laid  his  book  aside  and  stepped  softly  to- 
ward them.  Rankin  saw  at  once  the  change  that 
was  on  him.  His  hair  was  combed,  his  face 
shaven,  his  long  coat  brushed,  and  he  had  donned 
a  fresh  white  waistcoat.  As  Rankin  noted  these 
details,  a  pain  pinched  his  heart,  for  he  deduced 
from  them  that  there  was  no  surprise  in  store  for 
Garwood.  Ordinarily  he  would  have  been  the  first 
to  speak,  he  would  have  rushed  forward,  and  seized 
the  hand  of  his  candidate,  and  exulted  in  his  frank 
and  open  way,  but  now  the  words  he  had  were 
checked  on  his  lips,  and  he  remained  dumb,  grow- 
ing formal  as  the  sensitive  will.  Thus  it  was  left 
for  Knowlton,  for  Randolph  had  no  stomach  for 
the  job,  to  say,  as  he  held  forth  his  hand: 

"Mr.  Garwood,  let  me  be  the  first  to  congratu- 
late you  on  your  nomination." 

Garwood  smiled,  and  took  Knowlton's  hand. 

"Gentlemen,  I  thank  you,"  he  said.  He  gave 
his  hand  to  Randolph,  and  last  of  all  to  Rankin. 

"Ah,  Jim,  old  fellow,"  he  said. 

But  he  did  not  meet  Rankin's  eye. 

"The  convention  is  waiting  for  you,  Mr.  Gar- 
wood," said  Knowlton,  and  the  nominee  answered: 

"Ah,  indeed?  I  shall  be  glad  to  accompany 
you." 

The  citizens  at  the  door  of  the  court  room  for 
whom  a  representative  in  Congress  had  just  been 


3i8  The  13  th   District 

chosen,  parted  to  let  them  pass,  but  they  did  not 
cheer.  They  accepted  their  character  of  mere 
spectators,  and  seemed  to  feel  that  they  had  no  right 
to  disturb  the  proceedings  by  any  demonstration 
of  their  own.  But  the  slight  commotion  they  made 
had  its  effect  within,  and  the  waiting  delegates 
turned  their  heads  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  their  com- 
ing congressman.  He  walked  down  the  aisle  on 
the  right  arm  of  Knowlton;  Randolph  and  Rankin 
came  marching  behind.  The  Garwood  men  began 
to  clap  their  hands,  they  stamped  their  feet,  and  at 
last  they  lifted  up  a  shout,  and  so,  marching  erect 
among  them,  his  face  white,  his  brows  intent  and 
his  fixed  eyes  brilliant  with  excitement,  Garwood 
walked  the  short  way  to  the  front.  The  Singed 
Cat  met  him  at  the  steps  of  the  rostrum,  and  hav- 
ing taken  his  hand,  raised  him  to  the  judge's  place, 
and  said: 

"Gentlemen  of  the  convention,  I  have  the  honor 
— to  present  to  you — your  nominee — and  next  con- 
gressman— the  Honorable — Jerome  B.  Garwood." 

Bailey  faded  into  the  judge's  chair,  and  Garwood, 
slowly  buttoning  his  coat,  stood  and  looked  over 
the  body  of  delegates.  He  began  to  bow.  It  was 
Hale  now  who  led  the  applause,  not  Rankin,  and 
he  kept  them  at  it  by  sheer  force  of  the  persistence 
with  which  he  clapped  his  own  hands,  not  giving 
in  until  he  felt  that  the  enthusiasm  did  justice  to 
the  candidate,  to  his  victory,  and  to  the  occasion. 
The  Sprague  men  sat  silent,  no  sound  came  from 
their  quarter. 

Garwood  bowed  in  his    stateliest    way  to    the 


In  Convention  Assembled      319 

Singed  Cat  as  he  said :  "Mr.  Chairman,"  and  he 
bowed  again  to  his  audience  as  he  added,  "and 
gentlemen  of  the  convention."  And  then  he  made 
his  speech. 

He  would  not  detain  them  long  at  that  time,  he 
said,  as  if,  at  some  future  day,  they  might  expect 
to  be  held  indefinitely.  But  he  detained  them  long 
enough  to  assure  them  how  impossible  it  was  for 
him  to  find  words  in  which  to  express  his  thanks 
for  the  confidence  they  had  reposed  in  him,  and 
his  warm  appreciation  of  the  honor  they  had  con- 
ferred upon  him.  He  referred  to  his  past  services 
in  their  behalf,  and  in  behalf  of  the  party,  and  he 
put  the  responsibility  for  his  success  upon  them 
by  saying  that  future  victories  could  only  come 
through  their  united  efforts,  as  if  he  were  making  a 
sacrifice  for  their  sake  in  consenting  to  be  their 
candidate  at  all. 

He  spoke  with  the  customary  assumption  that 
his  nomination  had  come  entirely  unsought,  but 
he  made  them  feel  his  devotion  by  the  willingness 
with  which  he  assured  them  he  would  bear  their 
banner  that  fall,  and  he  graciously  promised  to  give 
his  entire  time  from  then  until  November  to  the 
election  of  the  whole  ticket.  Then  in  briefly  re- 
viewing the  services  and  the  sacrifices  of  the  late 
Congress,  he  repeated,  though  with  a  fine  extem- 
poraneous effect,  the  best  sentences  of  his  speech 
at  Washington,  and  quoted  readily  for  them  the 
most  impressive  statistics  of  imports  and  exports, 
which  they  did  not  at  all  understand,  and  as  if  these 
figures  had  fully  vindicated  the  wisdom  of  their 


320  The  13  th  District 

party's  policy  on  the  tarifif  question,  he  predicted 
that  the  scepter  of  commercial  empire  was  even 
then  passing  into  the  hands  of  the  United  States. 

He  did  not  forget  the  old  soldiers,  nor  their  pen- 
sions, neither  did  he  neglect  to  pay  most  generous 
tributes  to  the  distinguished  gentlemen  whose 
names  had  been  mentioned  in  connection  with  the 
high  office  to  which  he  had  been  nominated.  He 
seemed  almost  to  regret  that  they  had  not  been 
chosen  in  his  place,  such  were  their  superior  merits 
and  nobler  virtues.  And  thus  by  an  easy  oratorical 
circuit,  he  came  around  to  where  he  had  begun,  and 
thanking  his  fellow  countrymen  again,  bowed  and 
smiled,  and  turned  to  receive  the  congratulatory 
hand  of  the  Singed  Cat. 

When  the  applause  which  Hale  had  loyally  start- 
ed had  ended,  there  were  cries  for  Sprague,  but  as 
Sprague  was  not  there,  an  awkward  pause  was 
prevented  by  a  prompt  change  in  the  burden  of  the 
cry,  which  now  became  a  demand  for  Barrett. 
From  some  immediate  vantage  point  the  general 
was  conjured  forth,  and  made  his  speech,  thanking 
his  friends,  congratulating  his  opponents,  and  ex- 
tolling the  party  they  unitedly  represented,  as  if  he 
were  as  well  satisfied  with  defeat  as  he  would  have 
been  with  victory.  He  smiled  complacently  behind 
his  white  beard,  and  he  left  the  rostrum  with  his 
dignity  and  respectability  unimpaired. 

And  the  convention  was  over. 


XVI 


SATURDAY  evening  Emily  had  a  telegram 
from  Garwood  announcing  his  nomination. 
The  message  might  have  come  to  her  Satur- 
day noon,  but  Garwood  had  found  the  delegates  for 
the  most  part  in  mood  for  celebration,  while  he  him- 
self in  the  reaction  of  his  spirit,  was  not  disinclined 
that  way.  He  held  a  levee  in  his  rooms  reveling  in 
felicitations  and  when  this  was  done,  he  suddenly 
thought  of  the  Sprague  men,  smarting  under  defeat. 
They  must  not  be  allowed  to  depart  for  home  nurs- 
ing their  sores,  and  Garwood  made  it  a  point  to  see 
them,  or  to  have  Rankin  see  them,  and  check  in  its 
incipiency  a  contagion  that  might  plague  him  in 
the  fall.  So  it  was  evening  before  he  thought  to 
wire  his  wife,  and  it  was  late  in  the  night  before 
he  took  the  train  for  Lincoln,  where  he  was  tO' 
change  cars  for  home,  leaving  the  little  old  Ger- 
man town  to  settle  to  its  normal  quiet  for  Sunday 
morning. 

Emily,  with  the  knowledge  of  politics  that  poli- 
ticians' wives  acquire,  had  watched  from  day  to 
day  the  development  of  the  contest  at  Pekin,  Je- 
rome had  not  written  at  all,  but  Emily  chose  to 
consider  his  failure  as  an  exercise  of  one  of  the 
privileges  of  matrimony  to  which  lovers  look  for- 
ward as  they  labor  over  their  love  letters.  But 
she  added  a  second  reason  which  betrayed  the 
321 


322  The  13  th  District 

specious  quality  of  the  first,  when  she  explained  to 
her  father  that  in  these  days  of  newspapers,  letter 
writing  had  become  a  lost  art,  belonging  to  a 
lavender  scented  past  like  the  embroidery  of  tapes- 
tries. She  told  her  baby,  as  she  rolled  his  round 
little  body  in  her  lap,  that  she  was  jealous  of  poli- 
tics, and  promised  him  that  when  the  convention 
was  over,  his  father  would  be — and  here  she 
gasped  and  dropped  the  pretense  that  the  child 
could  understand.  She  could  not  bear  to  voice, 
even  to  herself,  the  feeling  that  her  husband  was 
any  less  the  lover  that  he  once  had  been.  She  re- 
alized to  the  utmost  his  position,  she  had  felt  it 
in  little  sacrifices  she  had  been  compelled  to  make, 
and  she  knew  of  his  utter  dependence  on  reelec- 
tion. Here,  too,  was  another  fact  that  she  could 
hardly  face  squarely  and  honestly.  She  clung  to 
her  old  ideal  of  her  husband  as  a  statesman  no  less 
ardently  than  she  clung  to  her  old  ideal  of  him  as 
a  lover,  and  she  disliked  to  feel  that  he  was  in 
Congress  merely  as  a  means  of  livelihood.  A 
vague  discontent  floated  nebulously  within  her, 
but  with  all  the  adroitness  of  her  mind  she  would 
not  allow  it  to  concrete. 

"When  he  comes  home!"  she  cooed  to  the  baby, 
"when  he  comes  home!" 

By  Saturday,  the  strain  upon  her  nerves  had  in- 
creased, like  all  anxieties,  in  a  ratio  equal  to  the 
square  of  the  distance  from  its  moving  cause.  All 
day  long  she  waited  for  news,  hoping  for  the 
best,  but  fortifying  herself  by  trying  to  believe 
that  if  the  worst  came,  it  might  in  the  end  be  bene- 


In  Convention  Assembled      323 

ficial,  because  it  must  in  time,  at  least,  force  them 
to  some  more  secure  temporal  foundation,  where 
they  could  not  be  disturbed  by  every  whim  of 
politics.  She  remembered  that  Jerome  had  often 
reminded  her,  though  that  was  in  moments  of  se- 
curity and  elation,  that  all  they  that  take  the  sword 
shall  perish  with  the  sword.  Her  father  himself 
suffered  a  sympathetic  suspense  and  in  the  after- 
noon he  journeyed  down  town  to  see  if  he  could 
learn  anything  of  what  was  going  on  at  Pekin. 
Late  in  the  day  the  Citizen  hung  out  a  bulletin 
saying  that  Garwood  had  been  nominated  on  the 
twelve  hundred  and  sixty-first  ballot,  and  he  hast- 
ened home,  with  the  importance  of  an  idle  old  man, 
longing  to  be  the  first  to  announce  to  Emily  the 
news.  But  she  waved  her  telegram  gaily  at  him 
from  the  veranda  as  he  hurried  up  the  walk,  and 
cried: 

"He's  won,  father!  He's  won!  He's  just  been 
nominated!" 

The  old  man,  cheated  of  a  herald's  distinction, 
could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  say: 

"Why,  he  was  nominated  this  morning!" 

She  felt  a  pang  at  these  tidings  of  her  husband's 
tardiness,  but  she  put  that  away  in  the  habit  she 
had  acquired,  and  said: 

"Oh,  I  know — but  these  telegraph  companies 
are  so  slow!" 

She  was  happy  all  that  evening,  though  she  de- 
nied that  her  own  relief  as  to  their  position  had 
aught  to  do  with  that  happiness. 

"He  will  be  much  more  useful  this  term  than  he 


324  The  13  th   District 

was  before,"  she  told  her  father  at  supper.  "J^" 
rome  always  said,  you  know,  that  it  took  one  term 
for  a  congressman  to  learn  the  ropes  at  Wash- 
ington." 

Garwood  reached  home  Sunday  morning,  and 
when  he  saw  Emily  waiting  in  the  doorway  some- 
thing like  pity  for  her  smote  him,  and  out  of  the 
flush  of  his  new  success  he  yearned  toward  her,  so 
that^  there  in  the  old  darkened  hallway  where  the 
tender  scene  had  been  enacted  so  many  times  in 
other  days,  he  folded  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed 
her  lips  and  her  brow  and  her  hair,  and  called  her 
once  more  "Sweetheart."  And  the  happy  little 
woman  purred  in  his  embrace,  and  as  she  hid  her 
face  against  his  breast,  she  said: 

"My  Jerome — my  big  Jerome!" 

And  it  was  all  as  it  had  been  two  years  before. 
Only  now,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his,  her  face  red- 
dened with  a  blush  as  she  said: 

"You  must  come  up  and  tell  baby — he  is  dying 
to  hear  all  about  it." 

Emily  vowed  to  Garwood  that  now  the  conven- 
tion was  over  he  must  take  a  rest,  and  he  was 
content  for  days  to  loll  at  home.  He  slept  late  in 
the  morning  and  she  bore  his  breakfast  to  him 
with  his  mail,  or  he  stretched  himself  on  the  divan 
in  the  parlor  in  the  afternoon  while  she  read  the 
newspapers  to  him  until  he  would  sink  into  slum- 
ber with  the  assurance  that  the  room  would  be 
darkened  and  the  house  hushed  until  he  chose  to 
wake. 

Pusey  had  nailed  the  party  banner  to  his  mast- 


In  Convention  Assembled      325 

head  as  it  were,  and  Emily  read  to  Garwood  with 
a  laugh  that  could  not  conceal  her  pride  the  big 
types  at  the  head  of  his  editorial  page: 

"For  Congress,  Jerome  B.  Garwood." 

There  day  after  day  it  remained,  and  she  read  it 
over  and  over,  finding  a  certain  joy  in  it,  Pusey 
had  printed  a  long  editorial  announcing  his  deter- 
mination to  support  Garwood,  and  explaining  with 
the  conviction  of  the  editorial  page — where  the 
argument  is  all  one  way,  with  no  chance  for  rejoin- 
der— his  own  action  in  voting  for  the  candidate  he 
had  originally  opposed. 

"He  isn't  really  consistent,  is  he,  Jerome?" 
Emily  said  after  she  had  read  the  editorial  aloud 
to  her  husband. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  laughed,  knocking  the  ashes  from 
the  cigarette  he  was  smoking,  in  a  security  he 
could  find  nowhere  else  in  Grand  Prairie,  for  he 
did  not  wish  the  town  to  know  that  he  smoked 
cigarettes,  "you  know  what  Emerson  says:  'A 
foolish  consistency  is  the  hobgoblin  of  little  minds, 
adored  by  little  statesmen  and  philosophers  and 
divines.'  " 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  the  wife  replied.  "We  used 
to  read  Emerson,  didn't  we?"  Her  words  breathed 
regret,  "We  never  read  any  more.  We  seem  to 
have  no  time  for  anything  but  newspapers."  And 
she  looked  askance  at  the  disordered  pile  of  them 
on  the  floor,  and  out  of  a  sense  of  guilt  reduced 
them  to  smaller  compass, 

"I  wonder  how  Mr.  Rankin  did  it?"  she  mused 
a  moment  after. 


326  The  13  th   District 

"Did  what?" 

"Why,  induced  Mr.  Pusey  to  vote  for  you." 

"Rankin?"  said  Garwood. 

"Why,  yes.  He  did,  didn't  he?  I  thought  he 
did  everything  for  you." 

Garwood  sneered. 

"Rankin  did  nothing!"  he  said,  "Rankin's  what 
the  boys  in  Chicago  call  a  selling  plater." 

"Why,  I  thought  he  did  everything!"  Emily  re- 
peated.   "Who  did  then?" 

"I  reckon  I  had  as  much  as  anybody  to  do 
with  it." 

"You?" 

"Yes.    Why  not?" 

"But  how?" 

"Oh — I  took  him  for  a  walk  one  night — the 
night  it  stormed.    Did  it  storm  here?" 

"Oh,  fearfully;  in  the  early  morning — awfully  I 
But  tell  me — how  did  you  do  it?" 

Garwood  laughed. 

"Oh,  I  just  talked  to  him." 

"Did  you  persuade  him — convince  him?" 

"Evidently." 

Emily  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  her  brows 
were  knit. 

"I  hope — "  she  began,  but  checked  herself.  "I've 
often  thought,"  she  said,  beginning  over,  "that  we 
ought  to  have  Mr.  Rankin  and  his  poor  little  wife 
here  to  dinner.  I  feel  guilty  about  them.  You — 
we — will  be  good  to  them,  won't  we?" 

Garwood  laughed  again, 

"You  needn't  worry  about  Jim  Rankin,"  he  said, 


In  Convention  Assembled      327 

"though  I  don't  know  that  I  owe  him  much  after 
his  letting  the  delegation  here  in  Polk  get  away 
from  me.  I  had  a  hard  time  licking  it  back  into 
line." 

It  was  several  days  after  that  Cowley  published 
an  article  in  the  Chicago  Courier  which  told  of  the 
tremendous  promises  that  had  been  made  at  Pekin 
in  exchange  for  votes.  He  said  that  Garwood  had 
shown  himself  a  clever  politician,  for  he  had  not 
only  been  able  to  hold  up  most  of  the  appoint- 
ments in  his  district  until  after  his  second  nomina- 
tion, but  he  had  had  the  help  of  the  administra- 
tion's influence  at  Pekin.  Cowley  then  proceeded 
to  schedule  the  distribution  of  patronage  that 
would  be  made;  Hale  for  the  post-office  at  Pekin, 
Bailey  for  Speaker  of  the  House,  and  Rankin,  of 
course,  for  the  post-office  at  Grand  Prairie.  He 
could  not  dispose  of  Pusey  as  definitely,  but  it  was 
not  to  be  supposed  that  Pusey  had  gone  to  Gar- 
wood and  saved  him  from  political  oblivion  for 
nothing  at  all. 

Emily  read  the  article  aloud  to  Jerome.  He 
knew  by  her  silence  when  she  had  finished  that 
questions  were  forming  in  her  mind.  She  set  her 
lips  and  began  shaking  her  head,  until  she  pro- 
duced a  low  "No,  I  don't  like  that." 

"That  New  England  conscience  of  yours  troub- 
ling you  again?"  asked  Garwood. 

"I  wish  we  had  more  New  England  conscience 
in  our  politics!"  she  replied  with  a  wife's  severity. 

"We've  got  enough  of  New  England  in  our  poli- 
tics now!"  Garwood  said,  with  a  flare  of  the  west- 


328  The  I  3  th   District 

ern  animosity  to  New  England's  long  domination 
of  public  affairs. 

"Well,"  she  persisted,  and  he  saw  that  her  lips 
were  growing  rigid,  "I  think  we  need  conscience 
in  our  politics,  whether  it's  New  England  or  not." 

Garwood  laughed,  but  it  was  a  bitter  laugh. 
"I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  win.  A  conscience,  Emily, 
is  about  as  great  an  impediment  to  a  practical  poli- 
tician in  these  days  as  it  is  to  a  successful  lawyer." 

"Don't  be  cynical,  Jerome,"  she  pleaded.  And 
she  thought  again. 

"Did  you  promise  Hale  the  post-office  for  get- 
ting you  those  Tazewell  County  votes?" 

"Of  course  I  did,"  said  Garwood,  "what  of  it?" 

"I  don't  like  it,"  said  Emily. 

"You  don't?" 

"No,  dear,  I  don't." 

"What  would  you  have  me  do?  Give  it  to  some 
fellow  over  there  who  was  against  me?" 

"N-n-n-no,"  she  said,  "but — " 

"But  what?"  he  went  on.  "You  liked  it  when  I 
told  you  I  was  going  to — take  care  of  Rankin, 
didn't  you?" 

"That's  different,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  a  woman's  logic!"  he  laughed. 

"You  don't  believe  in  buying  votes,  do  you,  Je- 
rome?" she  asked,  with  her  lips  still  tense  so  that 
they  showed  a  little  line  of  white  at  the  edges  of 
their  red. 

"No." 

"But  you  do  believe  in  buying  them  with  offices. 
What's  the  post-office  at  Pekin  worth  ?" 


In  Convention  Assembled      329 

"Oh,  eighteen  hundred,  I  reckon." 

"Eighteen  hundred — for  four  years;  let's  see — 
four  eights — thirty-two;  hum-m-m,  four  ones — 
• — three — seven;  seven — thousand,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  you're  not  very  good  at  figures,  but 
you've  nearly  hit  it — within  two  hundred." 

"I  never  could  multiply  in  my  mind,"  Emily  con- 
fessed. "But  you  wouldn't  think  it  right  to  give 
a  man  seven  thousand  dollars  in  money  for  a  dele- 
gation from  a  county,,  would  you?" 

"No,"  Garwood  answered,  "that's  too  high. 
You're  getting  into  senatorial  figures  now."  He 
laughed  again. 

"Do  be  serious,  Jerome.  I  don't  see  the  differ- 
ence myself." 

"No,  a  woman  couldn't — women  never  could 
understand  politics,  anyhow." 

"Well,  I  understand  this — that  I  have  learned  a 
good  deal  about  politics,  and  my  ideas  have  been 
changed.  I  used  to  think  that  in  this  country  the 
people  arose  and  elected  their  best  man  to  repre- 
sent them,  but  it  seems  that  the  representative 
elects  himself,  and  then  the  people — " 

"Don't  you  think  the  people  out  here  elected 
their  best  man  when  I  went  in?"  Garwood  asked, 
with  an  honest  laugh  in  his  eyes. 

She  bent  over  impulsively  and  kissed  him. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  said,  "but  I'm  speaking  gener- 
ally now." 

"No,  you're  not,"  Garwood  insisted,  "women 
can't  speak  generally.  It's  always  a  personal,  con- 
crete question  with  them." 


330  The  13th   District 

"Well,  you  know,  Jerome,  I've  had  my  ideals — 
in  politics,  too,  since  you  interested  me  in  politics." 

"You  weren't  interested  in  politics,  you  were  in- 
terested in  one  politician,  and  that  politician  was — 
me." 

"Well,  you — you  were  my  ideal,  and  I  thought 
of  you  as  I  thought  of  Patrick  Henry,  in  the  old 
Virginia  House  of  Burgesses,  and — " 

"Oh,  you  haven't  thought  deeply  enough,  my 
dear.  Patrick  had  his  own  troubles,  believe  me, 
though  they  didn't  get  into  history.  Did  you  ever 
stop  to  inquire  how  Patrick  got  to  the  House  of 
Burgesses?  It  was  easy  enough  to  make  speeches 
after  he  was  there — that  was  the  easiest  part  of  it 
— but  the  getting  there,  it  wasn't  all  plain  sailing 
then.  First  he  had  the  devil's  own  time  getting 
on  the  delegation  himself,  then  after  he'd  made 
himself  solid,  by  supporting  other  men  awhile,  he 
ihad  another  time  rounding  up  delegations  that 
would  support  him,  and  there  was  many  a  man  in 
Virginia  that  day,  whose  name  is  lost  in  darkness, 
who  was  ag'in  him,  and  many  another  who  went 
out  and  saw  the  boys  and  set  up  the  pins  and  got 
the  right  ones  on  the  delegation,  who  was  think- 
ing of  some  fat  job  in  that  same  House  of  Bur- 
gesses. And  take  any  other  of  the  white  statuesque 
figures  of  those  heroic  times — " 

"Oh,  no,  Jerome,  don't — ^you're  too  much  of  an 
iconoclast.  Leave  me  my  ideals.  There's  the 
baby!" 

She  arose  at  the  premonitory  whimper  that  a 
mother's  ear  detected. 


XVII 


RANKIN  returned  to  Grand  Prairie,  from  the 
convention,  in  a  state  of  mental  numbness. 
The  thing  he  had  gone  to  Pekin  to  do  had 
been  done,  and  yet  he  did  not  know  how  it  had  been 
done.  Every  one  greeted  him  as  the  author  of  Gar- 
wood's fortunes ;  his  latest  with  the  rest,  and  he  was 
forced  to  accept  congratulations  to  which  he  did  not 
feel  himself  entitled.  As  the  days  went  by  and  he 
saw  Garwood's  name  at  the  head  of  Pusey's  edi- 
torial column,  and  read  Pusey's  articles  favoring 
Garwood's  election,  he  was  more  than  ever  at  a  loss 
to  account  for  the  anomalous  situation  in  which  he 
found  himself.  Sometimes  he  had  his  doubts,  for  he 
was  old  enough  in  political  ways  to  have  acquired 
the  politician's  distrust,  and  what  with  the  whisper- 
ings of  friends  and  the  articles  he  had  read  in  other 
newspapers  he  suffered  a  torment  of  suspicions 
which  were  the  more  agonizing  because  of  the 
wrong  he  subconsciously  felt  they  did  Garwood. 
At  last  he  went  to  him. 

With  the  small  energy  the  morning  could  re- 
vive in  him,  Rankin  mounted  the  stairs  to  Gar- 
wood's office.  Garwood  was  opening  a  congress- 
man's mail,  always  large,  and  he  looked  up  from 
his  pile  of  letters  and  greeted  Rankin  with  a — 

"Well,  Jim?" 

331 


332  The  13  th   District 

Rankin,  as  he  sat  down,  was  sensible  of  the 
change  that  had  come  over  their  relations,  and  he 
grieved  for  the  old  days  when  he  had  been  able  to 
enter  this  ofifice  with  so  much  more  assurance.  But 
he  was  not  the  man  to  dally  long  in  sentimentali- 
ties, and  he  said,  when  he  had  settled  into  the  chair 
and  mopped  his  brow: 

"Jerry,  I've  come  to  have  it  out." 

Garwood  unfolded  the  letter  he  had  just  taken 
from  its  envelope.  His  face  reddened  as  he  bent 
over  to  read  it,  and  he  did  not  turn  around. 

"Have  what  out,  Jim?"  he  asked,  quietly. 

"Why,"  Rankin  went  on,   "this  misunderstand- 

ing." 

"What  misunderstanding?  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean.  Explain  yourself,"  Garwood  kept  on 
tearing  open  his  letters. 

"Oh,  well,"  Rankin  continued,  "you  know  it 
hain't  all  like  it  used  to  be,  that's  all.  I  don't 
know  how  to  say  it — I  just  feel  it,  but  it's  there, 
an',  damn  it,  I  don't  hke  it." 

Rankin  paused,  and  then  when  Garwood  did 
not  reply,  he  went  on: 

"I  reckon  it's  'cause  o'  my  fallin'  down  in  the 
county  convention  here  't  home,  an'  that's  all  right ; 
I  don't  blame  you  fer  feelin'  sore.  Course,  it  come 
out  all  right  over  at  Pekin — I  don't  know  how  it 
was  done,  an'  I  don't  know  as  I  want  to  know — I 
know  I  didn't  have  nothin'  to  do  'ith  it,  an'  I  don't 
claim  none  o'  the  credit,  ner  want  it.  I  'as  glad 
you  won  out,  glad  as  you  was.  I'd  'a'  give  my  right 
arm  clean  up  to  the  shoulder  to've  brought  it  'bout 


In  Convention  Assembled      333 

fer  you  myself.  I  didn't  do  nothin',  I  know.  I 
felt  kind  o'  paralyzed  all  the  time  over  there,  after 
losin'  the  delegation  here,  an'  I  seemed  to  myself 
jus'  to  be  standin'  roun'  like  any  other  dub  that 
'as  on  the  outside.  I  didn't  feel  in  it,  somehow, 
an'  I  don't  feel  in  it  now,  that's  what's  the  matter. 
I've  al'ays  been  with  you,  Jerry,  an'  you  know  it, 
an'  I'm  with  you  now,  but  they're  tellin'  strange 
stories  'roun',  an'  I  don't  like  'em,  an' — I  jus'  want 
to  know  where  I  stand  'ith  you,  that's  all." 

Garwood  wheeled  about  in  his  swivel  chair.  He 
looked  at  Rankin  a  moment  and  then  he  smiled. 
And  when  he  had  smiled,  he  leaned  comfortably 
back  in  his  chair  and  placed  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
together  over  his  white  waistcoat,  and  then  he 
spoke  at  last,  in  his  softest  voice: 

"What  is  it,  Jim,  that  worries  you — the  post- 
office?" 

Rankin  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"No,  Jerry,"  he  said,  "it  ain't  so  much  that.  I 
want  it,  o'  course,  you  know  how  I  need  it,  an'  I 
want  it  more'n  ever  jus'  now,  but  I  ain't  worried  so 
much  about  that.  I've  got  your  word,  an'  I  know 
you  never  went  back  on  it  yet,  to  a  friend,  though 
you  know,  Jerry,  that  if  It  'uld  help  you  any,  you 
could  have  your  promise  back,  an'  give  the  post- 
ofiEice  where  it  'uld  do  the  mos'  good.  You  know 
all  you'd  have  to  do  'uld  be  to  say  the  word,  don't 
you?" 

Garwood  smiled  again  and  leaned  forward  in  his 
chair  and  laid  one  of  his  white  hands  on  Rankin's 
fat  knee. 


334  The  i3th  District 

"Why,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "you've  been  giving 
yourself  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary  trouble.  You 
know  me,  don't  you?" 

"Why,  sure,"  assented  Rankin. 

"Well,  you  ought  to,"  added  Garwood,  still  smil- 
ing blandly,  and  a  slight  reproach  was  in  his  tone. 
"You  should  have  known,  Jim,  that  I  realized  you 
had  done  all  in  your  power.  I  never  for  an  instant 
blamed  you;  believe  me  when  I  say  that.  It  only 
occurred  to  me  that  I  could  handle  the  little  affair 
over  at  Pekin  better  than  you  could.  I  knew  that 
you  could  never  come  at  Pusey;  I  knew  that  you 
two  never  could  agree  in  a  thousand  years,  so  I 
just  took  hold  of  it  myself — not  with  very  much 
hope,  I  confess^  but  I  thought  it  worth  trying. 
And  luckily  it  came  about  all  right  in  the  end." 

"It's  all  right,  it's  all  right,  Jerry,"  Rankin  pro- 
tested, waving  his  hand  assuringly  toward  Gar- 
wood. "I  only  wanted  to  know  that  you  felt  all 
right  about  it,  that's  all."  His  great  red  face  smiled 
on  Garwood  like  a  forgiven  boy's.  But  suddenly 
it  hardened  again  into  the  face  of  a  man. 

"You  were  right — I  couldn't  'a'  done  nothin'  'ith 
Pusey,  damn  him.  My  way's  different  from  yourn. 
Maybe  yourn's  right.  You  believe  in  conciliatin' 
'em;  I  believe  in  killin'  'em  off.  An'  your  way  won, 
that's  all.    What  'id  you  have  to  promise  him?" 

Garwood  was  leaning  back  again,  and  had 
pressed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together. 

"Jim,"  he  said,  beginning  slowly,  "I've  learned  a 
good  deal  about  politics.  I  learned  a  good  deal 
from  you,  and  I  picked  up  a  good  deal  down  at 


In  Convention  Assembled      335 

Washington  during  the  session,  and  the  chief  thing 
I've  learned  is  to  go  slow  on  promises.  I  told  him, 
of  course,  that  I'd  take  care  of  him.  I  told  him 
that  there  was  no  use  in  our  being  enemies,,  none 
whatever;  that  we  could  just  as  well  work  to- 
gether for  the  party's  good,  and  accomplish  more 
that  way  than  by  keeping  up  a  bitter  factional  war 
here  in  the  county,  because  the  first  thing  we  knew 
we'd  wake  up  some  cold  morning  in  November  to 
find  that  the  other  fellows  were  all  in  and  we  were 
all  out." 

Rankin's  g^ze  was  fixed  afar.  His  brows  had 
knitted  themselves  into  a  scowl. 

"You  had  to  tell  him  that,  did  you?" 

"I  did  tell  him  that,  yes.    Why?" 

"Well — I  don't  jus'  like  this  thing  o'  gettin'  thick 
'ith  him,  so  sudden,  that's  all.  Who's  goin'  to  run 
the  campaign  fer  you  this  time?" 

"Why,  who  would  run  it  but  you?" 

"Me?"  said  Rankin,  smiling  again  all  over,  "You 
want  me?    An'  what's  Pusey  goin'  to  have  to  do?" 

"Oh,  we'll  let  him  print  editorials,"  laughed  Gar- 
wood. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Rankin,  "jus'  so's  I  don't 
have  to  see  him,  that's  all." 

Garwood  scrutinized  Rankin  closely  an  instant, 
and  once  more  he  leaned  over  in  his  persuasive 
way  and  laid  his  hand  on  Rankin's  knee. 

"Look  here,  Jim,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  and 
Pusey  to  be  friends." 

Rankin  shrank  from  the  thought. 

"Yes,  you  must — now  listen  to  me — I  demand  it. 


336  The  i3th   District 

I  want  no  mistakes  made.  I  want  you  all  to  work 
harmoniously  this  fall,  and  a  little  ill-feeling  right 
here  in  our  camp  may  beat  us.  We've  got  a  fight 
on  our  hands;  I'm  half  afraid  of  those  Sprague  fel- 
lows. They'll  have  their  knives  out,  and  we've 
got  to  hold  together;  above  all  we've  got  to  keep 
Pusey  in  line,  for  the  Sprague  fellows  here  don't 
feel  any  too  good  about  his  having  come  over  to 
me,  and  Pusey  has  a  following.  More  than  that, 
he's  got  a  newspaper,  and  he  can  make  it  tell. 
We've  got  to  keep  in  with  him,  and  I  want  you  to 
patch  up  a  truce  with  him.  You  must,  do  you 
hear?"  Garwood  gave  Rankin's  knee  a  shake.  "Do 
you  hear?" 

"Well,  if  you  say  so,  Jerry,"  he  consented  pres- 
ently, "it  '11  have  to  be.  Whatever  you  say  goes,  o' 
course,  but  the  truce  '11  be  a  damned  sight  more 
out'ard  than  in'ard  'ith  me,  I  tell  you  that." 

"No,  you  mustn't  feel  that  way,  Jim;  you 
mustn't." 

"Well,  my  God,  Jerry!"  Rankin  exclaimed,  "it 
'as  fer  your  sake  that  I  got  to  hatin'  him  like  I 
do,  though  I  never  did  like  the  little  whelp.  Gosh ! 
It  did  gall  me  to  have  to  sit  in  a  convention  beside 
him  an'  hear  him  announce  the  vote  fer  Polk 
County!  I  never  thought  I'd  live  to  see  the  day 
when  little  Free  Pusey  could  get  on  a  Polk  dele- 
gation, I  didn't!" 

And  he  shook  his  head  as  one  who  bewails  the 
evil  times  on  which  he  has  fallen. 

"Well,  for  my  sake,  then,  make  up  with  him.  I 
don't  cherish  any  ill-will  towards  him,  Jim."    Gar- 


In  Convention  Assembled      337 

wood  said  this  with  a  swelling  air  of  magnanimity 
as  if  he  had  attained  to  heights  of  charity  known 
only  to  the  early  Christian  martyrs. 

"You  never  was  a  good  hater,  Jerry/'  said  Ran-  ] 
kin,  as  thou2:h  it  were  a  virtue  to  be  as  consistent  ! 
and  steadfast  in  hatreds  as  in  friendships.  -^ 


XVIII 


THE  August  sun  was  ripening  the  corn,  and 
in  some  of  the  more  fertile  fields  the  slender 
stalks  already  nodded  their  young  plumes 
in  the  mid-summer  heat  that  quivered  over  the 
prairies.  It  was  too  much  to  expect  of  politicians 
that  they  work  in  such  weather,  and  they  were 
loath  to  begin  the  campaign,  yet  it  was  necessary 
to  make  the  first  lazy  preparations  for  the  heavy 
work  that  would  be  upon  them  when  the  frost 
should  begin  to  hint  of  coming  fall. 

Garwood  was  understood  to  be  resting  at  home, 
and  it  was  rumored  that  he  would  go  away  for  a 
while  and  recuperate  in  the  East,  where,  as  it  ap- 
pears to  men  in  the  West,  there  is  rest  for  the 
weary.  He  had  in  reality  the  natural  reluctance 
to  beginning  a  long  contemplated  and  difficult  task 
that  the  lesser  politicians  felt,  though  he  had  so 
much  more  at  stake  than  they.  Yet  he  would  not 
have  liked  the  boys  to  be  as  apathetic  as  he,  and 
in  a  dim  recognition  of  this  fact  he  bestirred  him- 
self one  day  and  went  down  to  see  Pusey.  There- 
upon Pusey  began  to  write  in  his  paper  of  the 
dangers  of  apathy  and  over-confidence,  rallying  the 
party  by  sternly  telling  it  that  the  mere  fact  of  its 
dominance  in  the  Thirteenth  District  did  not  justify 
its  lay  members  in  staying  at  home  and  trusting  to 
others  to  pull  it  through.  This  effort  satisfied  Gar- 
338 


In  Convention  Assembled      339 

wood  for  a  time,  and  he  loafed  on  through  August 
and  then  said  to  Rankin: 

"Oh,  wait  till  the  middle  of  September,  and  then 
give  them  six  weeks  of  a  rattling  fire  all  along  the 
line." 

"Yes,"  said  Rankin,  "we  don't  want  to  tap  our 
enthusi'sm  too  soon,  an'  have  it  give  out  on  us  the 
way  ol'  Bromley's  bar'l  did.  Gosh!  Didn't  he 
freeze  up  them  last  two  weeks,  though!" 

They  laughed  at  the  pleasing  memories  of  it. 

"Damned  if  I  didn't  Hke  that  campaign,"  Rankin 
went  on.  "Never  enjoyed  one  more'n  my  life, 
though  I've  had  some  hot  ones  in  my  time.  That 
storj^,  now,  that  Pusey  printed  'bout  you — 'member 
how  skeered  we  was?  An'  you  'member  them 
things  o' Bromley's — what  was  they? — kind  o' night 
shirts,  now — heh? — oh,  yes!  Well,  sir,  you'd  ought 
to  heerd  the  kids  I'd  planted  in  the  gallery  that 
night  when  Bromley  come  on  to  the  stage."  And 
Rankin  reared  back,  and  roared  and  slapped  his 
thigh,  "By  the  way,  what's  come  o'  Bromley? 
I  never  hear  o'  him  any  more,  do  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Gar\vood,  with  his  large  air  of 
a  knowledge  of  affairs,  and  then,  too,  with  the 
pride  of  a  man  who  doesn't  wish  his  opponent  belit- 
tled, especially  after  he  has  defeated  that  opponent. 
"I  hear  of  him  frequently.  He's  general  counsel 
for  his  road  now,  and  lives  in  Chicago." 

"Oh,  yes,  believe  I  did  hear  somethin'  o'  that," 
said  Rankin,  nodding  his  head.  "He  went  up  there 
same's  all  the  rest  o'  the  judges  from  the  country 
does.    They  get  elected  to  the  County  Court  down 


340  The  i3th   District 

here,  which  gives  them  the  title  o'  judge,  then 
when  they  come  off,  an'  have  to  go  to  work  again, 
they  go  up  to  Chicago  an'  practise  on  the  title. 
After  they've  been  there  'bout  two  years  people 
begin  to  b'lieve  they  'as  judges  o'  the  Supreme 
Court."  Rankin  paused  in  his  philosophizing,  and 
then  resumed,  quite  seriously:  "Don't  know  but 
what  Bromley  give  you  a  better  run  at  that  than 
this  here  young  Wetherby'ill  do." 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

"Oh,  I've  seen  him  onct  or  twict  overt  Sul- 
livan. He's  just  a  young  lawyer,  an'  he  knows  'at 
if  the'  'as  any  chanct  o'  his  winnin'  he'd  never  been 
nominated." 

September  came,  but  the  weather  remained  as 
hot  as  ever.  Rankin  declared  that  the  mere  pros- 
pect of  cool  weather  held  out  by  the  almanac  made 
him  feel  better,  though  he  believed  that  the  almanac 
ought  to  be  revised,  for  he  was  certain  the  seasons 
were  changing  in  Illinois.  As  a  boy  he  had  always 
gone  skating  on  Thanksgiving,  he  said,  but  now 
the  cold  weather  never  came  until  after  New  Year's. 
And  he  remembered,  too,  that  the  girls  always 
wore  white  dresses  and  gave  a  May-pole  dance 
on  the  first  day  of  May.  "But  nowadays,"  he  ex- 
plained, "they'd  have  to  hop  roun'  in  Galway  over- 
coats if  they  wanted  to  celebrate  that  day,  an'  as 
fer  summer — well,  it  keeps  hotter'n  the  hinges  o' 
hell  right  up  to  November.  But  politics  is  politics, 
an'  I  must  be  gettin'  a  move  on  me." 

Rankin  roused  at  last,  and  called  a  meeting  of 
the  congressional  committee.  The  members,  newly 


In  Convention  Assembled      341 

chosen  at  the  Pekin  convention,  came  to  Grand 
Prairie  and  met  in  the  office  of  the  county  treas- 
urer, and  there,  under  the  blazing  gas  jets  and 
with  the  bhnds  closed,  they  began  to  organize  Gar- 
wood's campaign. 

Rankin  and  Pusey  had  long  ago  shaken  hands, 
Garwood  standing  by  with  the  beatific  glow  of  the 
peacemaker,  though  all  the  while  the  look  in  Ran- 
kin's eyes  was  hard  as  ever,  and  Pusey's  smirk  was 
unchanged.  Pusey  attended  the  meeting  of  the 
congressional  committee,  even  if  he  was  not  a 
member,  and  the  others  were  pleasantly  stimulated 
by  the  prospect  of  a  disagreement  between  him  and 
Rankin,  But  the  editor  maintained  a  perfect  silence 
the  whole  evening,  never  vouchsafing  one  sugges- 
tion, but  acquiescing  in  all  that  was  done,  if  not  by 
voting,  which  would  have  been  impertinent,  at  least 
by  respectfully  nodding  his  head. 

And  if,  later,  when  the  county  central  commit- 
tee, of  which  Pusey  was  now  the  chairman,  met, 
Rankin  did  not  return  his  call,  as  it  were,  by  recip- 
rocally attending  the  meeting,  he  at  least  found 
business  that  took  him  out  of  town^  over  to  Mason 
County,  and  thereby  deprived  the  alert  editor  of 
the  Advertiser  of  the  ground  work  of  a  story  that 
would  have  served  him  for  every  dull  hour  of  an 
unusually  dull  campaign.  It  was  perhaps  well  for 
Garwood,  considering  the  strained  relations  be- 
tween his  two  chief  supporters,  that  this  was  a  dull 
campaign.  He  found  it  much  less  trying  than 
the  first.  There  was  not  so  much  for  him  to  do, 
and  what  there  was  he  could  enjoy  in  a  more  lei- 


342  The  13  th  District 

surely  manner.  It  was  the  off  year,  in  which  the 
people,  unable  to  work  themselves  up  to  the  pitch 
of  excitement  required  of  them  in  presidential 
years,  leave  politics  to  the  politicians  even  more 
than  they  ordinarily  do.  The  stripling  from  Moul- 
trie County  who  was  running  against  Garwood 
seemed  far  beneath  his  notice,  except  when  he 
chose  in  his  speeches  to  patronize  him.  His  own 
acquaintance  had  grown  wider,  there  were  many  to 
welcome  him  everywhere  he  went,  and  they  liked  the 
distinction  of  knowing  their  congressman  and  of 
calling  him  "jQTvy."  Garwood  loved  to  bask  in  their 
smiles,  to  revel  in  the  sensation  of  personal  popu- 
larity, and  it  became  more  and  more  easy  to  con- 
vince himself  that  he  was  a  genuine  man  of  the  peo- 
ple. There  was  another  new  feature  in  this  campaign 
that  he  enjoyed.  He  was  enabled  in  his  speeches 
to  speak  familiarly  of  Washington,  of  things  that 
were  done  and  said  in  the  House,  and  to  relate  per- 
sonal anecdotes  of  noted  men,  to  whom  it  was  ap- 
parent he  could  talk  in  a  free  colloquial  way,  that 
were  almost  as  delightful  to  his  auditors  as  to  him- 
self. 

'T  suppose,  now  that  it  is  all  over,"  he  would  say, 
"that  I  betray  no  confidence  in  telling  you  that  one 
afternoon  when  I  had  gone  over  to  the  White  House 
and  was  waiting  there  in  the  ante-chamber  to  see 
our  great  president,  that  he  spied  me  among  the 
others — Senator  Ames  was  there  with  me — and, 
coming  over  to  where  we  stood,  said:  'Jerry,  you're 
just  the  fellow  I  wanted  to  see — ' " 

It  was  not  necessary  that  year  for  him  to  defend 


In  Convention  Assembled      343 

his  own  record.  He  could  submerge  his  poHtical 
individuaHty  into  that  of  the  responsible  adminis- 
tration and  make  his  speeches,  like  all  the  other 
speeches  delivered  that  fall,  or  any  fall,  by  men 
striving  to  retain  seats  in  Congress,  mere  efforts 
to  explain  why  Congress  liad  not  done  what  the 
platform  of  two  years  before  promised  it  would  do. 

As  a  congressman,  too,  he  could  enjoy  the  im- 
portance of  giving  his  time  to  the  state  commit- 
tee^ and  of  delivering  speeches  in  other  districts 
in  Illinois,  and  once  he  even  went  beyond  the  bor- 
ders of  his  own  state,  and  journeyed  over  into 
Ohio,  where  he  spoke  in  the  Dayton  District  for 
his  friend  Whiteside,  who  sat  beside  him  in  the 
House.  This  experience  he  relished  more  than 
all  the  others,  for  the  Dayton  people,  not  sure  of 
his  exact  position  among  public  men,  determined 
to  make  no  mistake,  and  so  accorded  him  all  the 
honors  a  prophet  may  expect  away  from  his  own 
country. 

On  election  night  he  found  that  he  had  been 
reelected,  though  the  returns  from  Moultrie  County 
showed  a  falling  off  in  his  majority,  as  did  those 
from  his  own  county.  But  then,  as  Rankin  said 
in  congratulating  Emily,  after  they  had  sat  up 
until  midnight  in  Harkness's  parlors  receiving  the 
returns: 

"A  reduced  majority  draws  the  salary  just  as 
well  as  any." 


XIX 


GARWOOD  led  the  way  through  the  smoke 
and  clangor  of  the  B.  &  O.  station,  followed 
by  his  little  family,  Emily  hurrying  anxiously 
along,  holding  her  skirts  in  one  hand,  her  bag  and 
umbrella  in  the  other,  and  the  nurse  bearing  the 
sleeping  John  Ethan  in  the  rear,  A  fog  was  rolling 
up  from  the  Potomac  and  settling  thick  over  the  city. 
The  air,  heavy  as  it  was,  was  grateful  to  Emily,  after 
her  long  night's  nausea  from  the  sickening  curves, 
and  she  was  glad  that  it  was  moist,  for  the  damp- 
ness bathed  her  face  and  cooled  her  brow.  Like  all 
comers  to  Washington,  she  had  no  sooner  set  her 
foot  to  the  pavement  than  she  lifted  her  eyes  to 
behold  the  Capitol,  which  symbols  the  might  and 
majesty  of  the  Republic  to  the  stranger,  who,  when 
he  once  beholds  it,  ceases  to  be  a  stranger,  and 
feels  at  home,  for  this  city  belongs  to  the  nation 
and  each  citizen  in  it  has  an  immediate  revelation 
of  his  citizenship  and  of  his  common  ownership  in 
the  things  that  make  it  interesting  and  great.  Emily 
remembered  the  Capitol  as  she  had  seen  it  first,  on 
the  most  memorable  morning  of  their  wedding" 
trip,  lifting  its  dome  into  the  blue  of  an  autumn 
sky,  and  in  the  gladness  of  those  nuptial  days,  she 
had  pleased  her  own  fancy  and  delighted  Jerome 
by  fashioning  an  analogy  between  its  coved  apex 
344 


In  Convention  Assembled      345 

and  the  life  they  were  destined  to  lead  under  its 
shadow — rounded,  symmetrical  and  complete. 

But  on  this  December  morning,  the  fog  ob- 
scured the  Capitol,  and  though  Emily's  eye  ranged 
everywhere,  she  could  not  find  it.  Jerome  had 
nodded  to  one  of  the  hackmen  who  thrust  their 
whips  at  him  in  menacing  invitation,  and  as  he 
turned  to  assist  Emily,  he  knew  what  she  was  look- 
ing for.  So  with  the  pleased  superiority  of  one 
who  has  grown  familiar  with  noted  sights,  Gar- 
wood pierced  the  gloom,  and  then,  like  a  sailor 
sighting  land,  he  pointed  and  said: 

"There;  there  it  is.    See  it?" 

His  little  wife  bent  her  head  and  her  brows, 
while  the  cabman  waited  with  a  sneer,  and  at  last 
she  smiled  and  sighed  an  "Ah!"  of  recognition. 
For  she  had  descried  the  massive  dome,  floating 
majestically  in  the  gray  mists  as  if  it  had  detached 
itself  from  its  base  and  had  become  a  ghost  of  the 
fog,  of  a  color  and  of  an  immensity  with  it.  As 
she  tried  to  trace  its  vague  colossal  proportions, 
it  seemed  to  mount  higher  and  higher  on  the  heavy 
clouds,  and  there  it  hung  and  brooded  over  the 
capital  of  the  nation,  over  the  nation  itself,  and 
over  its  destiny.  It  soared  far  above  the  passions 
and  partisanship  of  the  little  men  who  swarmed 
through  its  great  porticos  and  in  its  huge  ro- 
tunda, and  it  Hfted  her  soul  to  lofty  conceptions, 
so  that  she  forgot  all  else  and  stood  there  with 
her  foot  on  the  step  of  the  carriage,  while  the 
others,   the   misanthropic   coachman,   the   hungry 


346  The  i3th   District 

and  accustomed  husband,  the  heavy-eyed  nurse, 
and  the  slumbering  babe,  waited. 

"Well!"  said  Garwood  at  last,  and  she  caught 
her  breath  and  recalled  herself  to  the  earth  with  a 
sigh. 

As  they  rolled  over  the  asphalt  streets,  she 
pressed  her  face  to  the  rattling  panes  of  the  car- 
riage window,  but  she  could  find  the  great  dome 
no  more;  it  had  floated  away  and  vanished  like  a 
vision  out  of  sight. 

Emily  saw  the  Capitol  at  other  times.  She  saw 
it  close  at  hand,  on  her  way  with  Garwood  across 
the  park  that  spread  its  plots  between  the  Capitol 
and  the  rising  walls  of  the  new  congressional 
library,  as  she  paused  to  rest  a  moment  near  the 
statue  of  Washington  boxed  up  for  the  winter,  and 
looked  up,  up,  up  the  pillared  front  of  the  build- 
ing to  the  dome  shining  in  the  afternoon  sun.  She 
saw  it  on  dark  nights,  when  its  rows  of  little  win- 
dows blinked  out  of  the  black  wall  of  night;  she 
saw  it  rising  calm,  pale  and  majestic  in  the  lumi- 
nous light  of  the  moon;  but  it  was  not  in  any  of 
these  moods  that  she  could  remember  it  there- 
after, nor  as  she  had  seen  it  for  the  first  time  on 
her  wedding  journey,  but  forevermore  it  appeared 
as  she  had  seen  it  that  morning,  when  her  eyes 
pierced  through  the  mists  and  caught  that  one 
glimpse  of  its  mighty  image,  a  gray  specter  of  the 
life  she  once  had  pictured  to  herself. 

They  drove  to  the  hotel  where  Garwood  had 
lived  during  his  first  session,  and  where  he  still 


In  Convention  Assembled      347 

owed  a  bill,  and  took  the  rooms  he  had  arranged 
for. 

In  the  flush  of  his  reelection  he  had  insisted 
upon  his  wife's  going  to  Washington  with  him  for 
the  short  session,  and  without  much  difificulty  she 
had  induced  her  father  to  consent  to  her  depar- 
ture. He  had  said  he  could  get  along  without  her 
during  the  three  months  the  session  would  last, 
though  the  lengthened  tone  in  which  he  drawled 
out  the  names  of  the  three  months,  December, 
January  and  February,  told  of  a  prospect  before 
him  as  long  and  dark  as  the  winter  itself.  She  had 
silenced  the  qualms  she  had  felt  by  wringing  from 
him  half  a  promise  to  come  on  to  Washington  him- 
self in  February;  he  might,  she  insisted,  anticipate 
the  spring  that  way.  And  when  her  duty  to  her 
father  seemed  drawing  her  away  from  her  resolu- 
tion, she  dwelt  inwardly  on  her  duty  to  her  hus- 
band. She  had  thought  through  the  long  hours 
of  wakeful  nights  of  her  separations  from  him;  she 
had  counted  with  a  gasp  of  sudden  fright  the  days 
into  which  those  separations  lengthened,  and  she 
had  resolved  that  nevermore  in  the  future  would 
she  let  him  be  so  long  away  without  her.  She  had 
buttressed  her  soul  in  that  regard  on  certain  sage 
words  of  her  Mother  Garwood,  who  had  shaken  her 
head  and  said: 

"It  ain't  good,  it  ain't  good,  Em'ly,  fer  young 
husban's  to  be  away  too  much  from  their  wives. 
It  never  was  intended ;  no,  it  never  was  intended," 
she  repeated,  shaking  her  head  with  the  satisfaction 
she  found  in  her  knowledge  of  the  will  of  God  in 


348  The  l3th   District 

His  personal  dealings  with  His  creatures  on  this 
earth,  and  her  words  had  impressed  Emily  as  if 
they  were  indeed  a  revelation. 

During  their  first  few  days  in  Washington,  it 
rained  continually,  and  she  stayed  indoors,  save 
for  a  trip  down  the  street  as  far  as  the  Treasury 
building,  around  which  she  walked  in  a  little  spirit 
of  adventure,  taking  her  eyes  from  its  portico  long 
enough  to  gaze  down  the  wide  sweep  of  Pennsyl- 
vania Avenue,  with  the  Capitol  rising  at  its  end. 
And  then  she  hurried  back  to  the  baby. 

Garwood  was  too  much  occupied  with  what  he 
called  duties  connected  with  the  opening  of  Con- 
gress to  be  much  with  her.  On  the  day  the  Con- 
gress convened  he  took  her  with  him  and  left  her 
in  the  gallery  to  look  down  on  the  assembling 
members,  and  she  found  her  keenest  interest  in 
following  him  about  as  he  moved  to  his  seat,  and 
in  watching  the  members  pause  to  shake  his  hand 
and  to  smile,  and  to  join  their  laugh  with  his,  so 
that  she  knew  they  were  congratulating  each  other 
upon  reelection, 

Garwood  otherwise  was  most  of  the  time  out  of 
her  sight.  She  had  observed  in  him  a  new  interest 
in  life  the  moment  his  feet  touched  the  stones  of 
Washington.  He  went  about  with  a  quick,  elastic 
step,  he  was  full  of  enthusiasm  and  laughter,  and 
if  he  kept  her  waiting  for  him  long  at  meal  time, 
he  returned  to  her  with  ample  apologies  and  in  a 
state  of  excitement  that  made  him  solicitously 
merry  during  the  meal.  At  dinner  he  usually  called 
for  a  bottle  of  wine,  and,  as  his  eyes  fastened  them- 


In  Convention  Assembled      349 

selves  upon  the  glass  into  which  the  wine  bubbled 
as  the  negro  tilted  the  bottle  he  had  bound  in  a 
napkin,  he  said  to  her: 

"Ah!   This  is  life  once  more!" 

And  as  she  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  he  said: 

"After  all,  it's  worth  all  a  fellow  has  to  go 
through  out  in  that  beastly  mud  hole  to  be  back 
here  where  one  can  really  live." 

It  was  in  one  of  these  moods  that  he  consented 
to  make  the  trip  over  to  Arlington,  and  Emily, 
who  had  already  matured  a  feminine  plot  of  reviv- 
ing, thereby,  some  of  the  emotions  of  their  wedding 
journey,  felt  a  new  resilience  in  her  spirits  that 
verified  at  last  all  the  hopes  she  had  held  out  to 
her  heart  for  this  sojourn  in  the  Capital  with  her 
husband. 

It  was  a  warm  afternoon,  and  the  sun  shone 
down  with  a  cruel  suggestion  of  spring — cruel, 
because  one  must  instantly  remember  that  it  was 
only  December,  and  that  the  winter  lay  all  before. 
They  took  their  luncheon  that  day  in  the  Senate 
restaurant  and  Emily  assured  Jerome  that  she 
had  never  enjoyed  any  luncheon  so  much  in  her 
life.  She  was  tempted  in  the  spirit  of  holiday  that 
was  upon  them,  to  drink  some  of  the  wine  Jerome 
said  they  must  have  to  make  the  repast  perfect, 
but  her  conscience,  or  her  sense  of  responsibility 
as  the  keeper  of  Jerome's  conscience,  would  not 
let  her.  As  they  sat  there  over  their  oysters,  Emily 
was  happier  than  she  had  been  for  months,  and  she 
looked  proudly  across  the  table  at  Jerome  and 
compared  him  to  the  distinguished  men  he  was 


350  The  13  th  District 

constantly  pointing  out — senators  with  whose 
names  she  had  long  been  familiar,  whose  faces  she 
phad  so  often  seen  in  the  newspapers.  There  was  a 
^  species  of  reassurance  in  her  immediate  observa- 
j  tion  that  they  were,  after  all,  very  human  men, 
who,  despite  the  partisan  bitterness  they  could  not 
I- conceal  behind  all  the  euphemisms  senatorial  cour- 
tesy moved  them  to  employ  in  their  contributions 
to  the  Congressional  Record,  nevertheless  fore- 
gathered companionably,  Republicans  and  Demo- 
crats, and  even  Populists,  and  joked  and  laughed 
like  common  brotherly  men.  The  little  bell  that 
was  always  jingling  them  away  to  roll-calls  up  in 
the  Senate  chamber,  snatching  them,  as  it  were, 
from  their  lobsters  and  salads,  or,  in  the  cases  of 
the  older  and  hence  more  dyspeptic  statesmen, 
their  bread  and  milk_,  just  as  they  were  being 
served,  filled  that  little  room  in  the  basement  with  a 
fine  excitement,  which  reflected  its  warmth  in  her 
glowing  cheeks,  and  sent  its  exhilaration  coursing 
through  her  veins  as  happily  as  if  she  had  con- 
sented to  drink  the  wine  Jerome  still  urged  upon 
her. 

As  she  looked  at  all  those  great  men,  and  looked 
at  Jerome,  thinking  how  much  more  handsome  he 
was  than  they,  she  projected  her  thought  to  the 
time  when  he  would  be  a  senator  from  Illinois  and 
they  would  appear  together  in  the  Senate  restau- 
rant, in  their  turn  to  be  pointed  out.  The  pleasing 
sense  of  distinction  was  already  with  her,  because 
of  the  company  they  were  in,  though  Emily  had 
speedily  learned  that  most  congressmen  in  Wash- 


In  Convention  Assembled      351 

ington  go  about  unnoticed,  and  that  not  all  of  the 
senators  are  known  by  sight. 

"Not  until  the  cartoonists  take  them  up,"  Je- 
rome had  explained  to  her, 

"You'll  go  splendidly  in  a  cartoon!"  she  said, 
enthusiastically. 

"Would  I?"  he  rejoined.  "Well,  that's  hardly  a 
compliment.  You  know,  the  cartoons  are  all  hate- 
ful, outrageously  hateful — at  least,  the  good  ones. 
Those  that  praise  are  always  absurd  and  flat." 

As  they  were  finishing  their  luncheon,  three  men 
came  in  and  took  a  table  across  the  room.  When 
Garwood  saw  them  he  bowed,  and  some  signal  evi- 
dently passed  between  them,  for  Garwood  excused 
himself  for  an  instant  from  his  wife,  and  went  over 
to  join  them,  leaning  over  their  table  to  whisper 
for  a  moment.    When  he  came  back  he  said: 

"Em,  I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I  find  I  shall  be 
detained  here  at  the  Capitol  for  about  half  an  hour. 
We  have  a  meeting  of  a  subcommittee  I'm  on. 
I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  added  as  he  saw  her  face 
fall,  "but  if  you  can  go  back  to  the  hotel — I'll  put 
you  on  the  car — I'll  join  you  there  at  two." 

He  led  her  down  the  hall  past  the  Senate  post- 
ofifice,  then  out  to  New  Jersey  Avenue,  where  he 
put  her  on  the  car  that  took  her  back  to  the  lone- 
some little  hotel. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  he  rejoined  her 
there. 


XX 


EMILY  sat  at  her  window,  across  which  the 
rain  slanted  dismally  into  the  street  below. 
Jerome  lay  in  bed  sleeping  still,  though  it 
was  now  nearly  noon.  He  slept  hard  after  his  labors 
on  the  subcommittee,  and  she  had  sent  the  nurse  with 
the  baby  to  patrol  the  long  hallway,  in  order  that  the 
child  might  not  awaken  his  father,  and  she  had  gone 
about  herself  noiselessly,  to  the  same  end.  She  had 
tried  to  read,  but  could  not.  She  had  fancied  a  long 
letter  to  Dade  Emerson,  describing  her  Washing- 
ton trip,  but  the  enthusiasm  she  had  imagined  for 
this  letter,  the  first  in  a  long  while  in  which  she 
had  anything  to  relate  that  would  compare  with 
the  letters  Dade  was  able  to  write,  colored  as  they 
were  with  the  picturesqueness  of  Old  World  travel, 
could  not  that  morning  ring  true. 

She  had  thought  the  day  before,  when  they  were 
in  such  gala  mood,  that  the  old  lover-like  intimacy 
was  growing  upon  them  again,  and  she  had  told 
herself  that  a  winter  thus  together  in  Washington 
would  once  more  intertwine  their  lives  into  one  har- 
monious and  beautiful  fabric;  that  all  their  dreams 
would  come  true.  She  had  carefully  scanned  all  the 
senators  and  public  men  she  had  seen,  intent  upon 
knowing  them,  at  least  by  sight,  and  she  had  re- 
solved, too,  that  she  would  study  the  details  of  pub- 
352 


In  Convention  Assembled      353 

He  questions  more  deeply  that  she  might  be  of  real 
help  to  her  husband,  as  he  grew  in  statecraft. 

But — she  had  felt  her  heart  turn  cold  and  dead 
within  her  as  she  recognized,  in  her  curiously  in- 
tricate train  of  morbid  thought  that  these  very  re- 
solves proved  the  existence  of  conditions  she  had 
refused  to  acknowledge,  and  now  she  sat  before 
the  window,  her  little  chin  on  her  hand,  looking 
vacantly  out.  Over  the  way  a  Catholic  church, 
built  of  stone,  held  one  of  its  oaken  doors  ajar. 
She  saw  a  woman,  evidently  a  poor  woman,  for  she 
wore  a  shawl  over  her  head,  enter  the  church. 
Somehow  the  sight  added  to  her  despondency. 

She  was  roused  by  a  knock  on  the  door.  A  bell- 
boy stood  there  with  a  tray.  She  took  the  cards, 
and  read  the  names  of  Joseph  Hale,  and  Freeman 
H.  Pusey.  Hale  had  written  his  name  upon  the 
blank  card  supplied  by  the  hotel ;  Pusey's  was  a 
sample  of  his  own  job  work  and  proclaimed  him  as 
editor  and  proprietor  of  the  Grand  Prairie  Citizen, 
Daily  and  Weekly.  She  thrilled  a  little  at  the 
thought  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  the  reality 
of  a  delegation  of  constituents  calling  upon  their 
congressman;  and  then  a  great  flood  of  homesick- 
ness rolled  over  her,  a  homesickness  that  was  the 
more  acute  because  these  men  were  not  known  to 
her,  and  could  only  suggest  home,  not  realize  it 
for  her  here  so  far  away  from  that  home. 

She  told  the  boy  to  show  the  gentlemen  to  the 
parlor,  and  to  say  that  Mr.  Garwood  would  be 
down  presently. 

When    she    awakened    her    husband,    as     she 


354  The  i3th   District 

thought  the  importance  of  the  visit  justified  her  in 
doing,  he  roused  and  writhed  his  big  arms  over  his 
curly  head. 

"Who  are  they?"  he  yawned. 

She  read  the  names. 

"Oh,  let  'em  wait,"  he  said,  then  he  rolled  heavily 
over,  stretched,  and  went  to  sleep  again.  She  went 
down  to  the  parlor  herself  to  meet  the  two  men. 

"I'm  Mrs.  Garwood,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  glad  to 
see  any  one  from  home.  Mr,  Garwood  was  detained 
very  late  last  night  by  an  important  committee 
meeting  and  is  still  sleeping.  Can  you  come  back 
later,  or  will  you  wait?  I  do  not  like  to  rouse  him 
just  now — he  is  quite  worn  out,"  she  added,  select- 
ing for  them  the  alternative  she  preferred.  They 
adopted  her  selection  and  said  they  could  come  back 
in  the  afternoon. 

"We  can  go  out  and  see  the  town  a  little,"  said 
Hale.  "We've  never  been  in  Washington  before, 
ma'am.  Great  place,  ain't  it?  Do  you  think  we 
could  see  the  president?  I'd  like  to  see  how  he 
looks  in  his  place.  I  helped  put  him  there." 
/  Hale  spoke  with  the  glow  of  personal  pride,  and 
with  the  sense  of  personal  ownership  the  American 
feels  in  the  ruler  he  has  helped  to  raise  to  power, 
and  is  just  as  ready  to  pull  down  if  he  doesn't  do 
all  things  to  suit  him. 

Pusey  and  Hale  were  back  again  before  Garwood 
had  finished  the  coffee  and  roll  which  he  had  or- 
dered sent  to  his  room. 

"Sit  down,  boys,"  he  said,  speaking  with  his 
mouth  full  of  the  roll,  "I'll  be  at  your  service  pres- 


In  Convention  Assembled      355 

ently.  What  have  you  been  doing  to  kill  the  time? 
Seeing  the  sights?" 

"Well,  we  went  up  to  look  at  the  president,"  said 
Hale,  for  Pusey  was  looking  out  of  the  window 
with  his  usual  lack  of  interest,  until  a  belated  fly 
crawled  torpidly  over  the  cold  pane,  and  then  he 
tapped  at  it  with  his  little  stick. 

"See  him?"  asked  Garwood. 

"No,  couldn't  get  near  him.  Guess  he's  got  the 
swelled  head,  hain't  he?" 

Garwood  laughed. 

"Oh,  well,  you  know  he's  busy.  Possibly  he  was 
at  a  cabinet  meeting.  Let's  see,  is  this  Friday? 
ril  fix  it  for  you  though.  I'll  take  you  over  to  see 
him  before  you  go  back.    When'd  you  get  in?" 

"Just  got  here  this  morning,"  said  Hale.  "I 
come  to  talk  over  with  you  that  little  matter 
about — "  He  looked  all  around  the  room  as  if 
spies  were  concealed  somewhere,  "about  the  post- 
office  at  Pekin — you  know." 

"Oh,  yes !"  said  Garwood,  with  unusual  cheerful- 
ness for  a  congressman  when  a  post-office  is  men- 
tioned, "I'll  take  care  of  that,  Joe." 

Garwood  got  up,  with  a  wrench  of  pain. 

"God,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  feel  old  this  morning." 

"Ain't  you  well?"  asked  Hale,  solicitously. 

"Oh,  just  a  touch  of  rheumatism,  I  reckon — 
head  aches,  too,  like  the  devil.  Wait  till  I  kiss  the 
baby  good  by  and  I'll  be  with  you." 

He  went  into  the  adjoining  room. 

"Fond  of  his  family,  ain't  he?"  said  Hale,  ap- 
provingly. 


356  The  13th   District 

"I  believe  I've  heard  as  much  intimated,"  an- 
swered Pusey. 

Garwood  returned  with  his  overcoat  and  hat  and 
gloves,  and  they  went  out.  He  spent  the  day  with 
them,  tramping  about  through  the  rain,  and  at  night 
took  them  to  the  theater,  one  of  the  sacrifices  a 
congressman  must  make  when  his  constituents 
come  to  Washington, 

When  he  returned  to  the  hotel  at  midnight,  and 
went  up  to  his  rooms,  he  found  his  wife  sitting 
before  a  fire  she  had  had  laid  in  the  grate.  She 
was  dressed  and  her  little  traveling  bag  stood  on 
the  marble-top  center  table,  with  her  hat  and  veil 
and  rolled-up  gloves  beside  it. 

"Why!"  he  said,  in  surprise,  "what's  the  matter?" 

She  turned  and  lifted  to  him  a  face  that  was 
stained  with  tears.  Then  she  rose,  holding  out  her 
arms  towards  him, 

"Oh,  Jerome !"  she  said.     "I'm — going  home  !" 

"Why— Em— dearie !  What's  the  matter!  Tell 
me,  what's  the  matter?"  He  had  gone  close  to  her 
and  taken  her  in  his  arms,  and  he  made  his  question 
the  demand  of  a  man  who  does  not  like  to  deal  with 
tears : 

"What's  the  matter,  I  say,  tell  me !" 

A  tone  of  terror  had  got  into  his  voice. 

"Look!"  She  drew  a  telegram  from  the  bosom 
of  her  dress,  and  held  it  toward  him.  When  he 
took  it,  she  hid  her  face  on  his  breast  and  shook 
with  great  sobs. 

He  took  the  telegram  with  his  free  hand,  flirted 
it  open  and  read: 


In  Convention  Assembled      357 

"Your  father  ill.  You  had  better  come  home  at 
once.  Dr.  G.  S.  Larkin." 

"Doctor  G.  S.  Larkin!"  Garwood  said,  repeating 
the  signature,  "that's  like  him,  to  sign  it  Doctor." 

"Oh,  but  Jerome,"  his  wife  cried,  "that's  of  no 
importance — how  he  signs  it — now."  And  she 
wept  afresh,  as  if  he  had  added  an  afifront  to  her 
misery. 

"Well,  there,  dear,  don't  cry.  It's  all  right.  Must 
you  go,  think?"  He  released  her  and  she  sank  into 
the  chair  again. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  moaned,  drooping  toward  the 
fire,  "I  must  go  at  once.  Oh,  you  were  so  long  in 
coming!  I  needed  you  so,  and  wanted  you  so!  I 
ought  to  have  gone  on  that  train  to-night."  She 
shook  her  head  slowly  from  side  to  side.  "Poor, 
lonely  old  man !" 

The  words  half  enraged  Garwood,  but  he  kept 
silent.  He  did  not  know  what  else  to  do — only  to 
wait, 

"Where's  baby?"  he  asked  presently. 

"He's  sleeping,"  she  said,  "in  there."  She  waved 
her  hand  wearily  toward  the  door.  "He's  all  ready 
— we're  all  all  ready.    When  can  we  go?" 

"Well,  you  can't  leave  now  until  to-morrow,"  he 
said,  trying  to  be  tender  with  her.  "Hadn't  you 
better  get  to  bed  and  get  some  rest?" 

"Oh — no — no,"  she  moaned.    "I  couldn't  sleep." 

"But,  dear,  you'll  need  your  strength,  you  must 
try ;   think  of  baby." 

"Poor  little  fellow!"  she  said,  as  though  he  had 


358  The  i3th   District 

been  deserted.  She  clasped  her  knee  in  her  hands 
and  rocked  back  and  forth.  Garwood  was  silent, 
looking  at  her  helplessly. 

She  grew  calmer  after  awhile,  and  said: 

"My  poor  little  visit  was  doomed  from  the  first; 
I  knew  it,  Jerome." 

"Oh,  now,  don't  look  at  it  that  way,"  said  Gar- 
wood, in  a  big  round  voice.  "You'll  soon  be  back, 
father'll  be  better;  he's  all  right.  You  can  bring 
him  back  with  you,  and  we'll  have  a  good  time  here 
all  together." 

She  shook  her  head  hopelessly. 

"You  go  telegraph,  Jerome;  tell  them  when  I'm 
coming." 

Garwood  was  glad  to  escape  to  the  office  and  the 
bar. 


XXI 


RANKIN  had  been  at  home  all  day,  helping  his 
wife  with  the  washing.  The  larder  was  grow- 
ing lean  in  the  Rankin  home,  though  Rankin 
himself  laughed  with  his  usual  optimism,  and  said 
that  it  would  be  all  right  again  in  a  few  days.  The 
evening  had  come  and  he  had  gone  out  into  the 
yard  to  do  his  chores.  Though  the  air  was  cold  he 
was  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  and  he  went  about  his  work 
singing  loudly  the  staves  of  an  old  hymn: 

"  There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight, 
Where  saints  immortal  reign; 
In-fi-nite  day—'" 

"Jim !"  his  wife's  voice  called  from  the  back  door. 
"Yeoup !"  he  shouted  back,  and  then  sang  on : 

"  * — excludes  the  night. 
An'  pleasures  banish  pain. 

"  'There  everlastin'  spring  abides,'  " 

"Oh,  Jim!" 

"Yeoup !"  he  shouted,  as  the  call  came  the  second 
time.    "Whatch  y'  want?" 
"Come  here!" 
"All  right— 

359 


36o  The  i3th   District 

"  'An'  never-with'rin'  flowers ; 
Death,  like  a  narrow  sea,  divides 
This  heavenly  land  from  ours.'  " 

Rankin  stooped  in  the  anguish  of  a  fat  man,  and 
gathered  up  an  armful  of  the  kindlings  he  had 
been  splitting,  and  started  toward  the  house.  As 
he  stamped  up  the  steps  into  the  kitchen,  he  sang 
on: 

"  'Sweet  fields  beyond  the — ' 

"Hello,  kid,"  he  suddenly  said,  interrupting  his 
own  song,  "where'd  you  come  from?" 

He  stretched  out  his  right  arm  and  covering  his 
little  son's  head  with  his  big  palm  he  rolled  it 
round  and  round  on  the  boy's  shoulders  as  he 
passed.  And  then  suddenly  Rankin  felt  a  strange 
unnatural  chill  in  the  atmosphere  of  his  home. 
There  was  the  supper-table  laid,  the  baby  was  al- 
ready sitting  up  to  it,  pounding  his  tin  waiter  hun- 
grily with  his  spoon,  while  his  little  sister  tried  to 
distract  his  attention  from  his  own  hunger  by  cut- 
ting antics  on  the  dining-room  floor. 

The  pleasant  odor  of  fried  potatoes  filled  the 
kitchen,  the  coffee  steamed  in  the  pot,  its  fragrant 
aroma  had  reached  him  even  in  the  woodshed.  It 
was  the  hour  of  all  others  in  the  day  that  he  liked; 
he  would  take  the  tin  pan  presently  out  to  the  cis- 
tern pump  and  blow  like  a  porpoise  as  he  washed^ 
his  face,  then  he  would  swing  the  pan  at  arm's 
length,  scattering  the  water  afar,  and  come  groping 
into  the  kitchen  toward  the  long  towel  that  hung 
in  an  endless  belt  on  a  roller  behind  the  door.    And 


In  Convention  Assembled      361 

then  they  would  have  supper,  and  he  could  joke  his 
little  wife  and  his  little  boy,  and  give  the  baby  pro- 
hibited tid-bits  from  his  plate. 

He  felt  the  change  in  the  atmosphere  again  as  he 
sat  down  to  the  supper  table,  and  yet  he  did  not 
reason  about  such  things,  or  probe  their  causes 
deeply.  He  thought  it  was  their  poverty  that  was 
worrying  his  wife.  That  cloud  sometimes  dark- 
ened the  home  for  them  of  late. 

"Well,  cheer  up,"  he  said,  as  he  sat  down  to 
the  table,  his  coat  still  ofif;  "we're  poor  but  honest 
parents.  Remember,  Mollie,  what  the  good  Book 
says :  'I  have  never  seen  the  righteous  forsaken, 
ner  his  seed  beggin'  bread.'  I  can't  qualify  under 
the  first  clause,  but  I  can  under  the  second.  There 
never  was  a  better  man  than  your  Grampa  Rankin, 
Willie.  How'd  ye  get  along  at  school  to-day?"  he 
asked  presently,  still  addressing  the  boy.  "You 
want  to  get  a  hump  on  yourself;  I'm  goin'  to  put 
you  in  Jerry  Garwood's  ofKce  one  o'  these  days, 
an'  make  a  lawyer  of  you,  ye  know." 

But  try  as  he  would  to  rally  them  he  failed,  and 
he  looked  curiously  at  last  from  his  son  to  his  wife, 
and  back  again.    Then  it  dawned  upon  him. 

"Look'e  here,"  he  said,  placing  his  fists  on  the 
table,  his  knife  sticking  up  from  one,  his  fork  from 
the  other,  "you  two's  got  some  pleasant  surprise 
fer  papa;  I  can  see  it  in  your  faces.  Le's  see,  is 
this  my  birthday?  What  kind  of  a  game're  you  an' 
mama  puttin'  up  on  the  old  man,  anyhow?"  He 
looked  at  his  son. 

"Jim,"  said  his  wife,  and  her  tone  almost  froze 


362  The  13  th   District 

him.  He  looked  at  her  motionless,  his  mouth  and 
eyes  open.  "Ji"^/'  ^^^  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "the 
postmaster's  been  appointed." 

He  dropped  his  knife  and  fork,  a  sudden  gleam 
came  to  his  eyes,  then  the  grin  broke  out  all  over 
his  big  face.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  wool  his 
boy's  head  again,  when  his  wife  looked  across  the 
table  at  him  and  cried: 

"Oh,  Jim,  no — don't — you  don't  understand.  It's 
not  you — it's  Pusey." 

He  stared  at  her  in  utter  silence  for  a  minute, 
his  wife  looking  at  him  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and 
her  son  trying  hard  to  swallow  the  lump  that  came 
into  his  throat  when  mother  cried.  The  little  girl 
looked  up  with  big  eyes;  even  the  baby  was  still. 
At  last  Rankin  spoke. 

"How  do  you  know?"  he  asked. 

"Willie  heard  it.  down  town,  on  his  way  home 
from  school." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"Oh,  hones',  papa,"  the  boy  protested,  as  if  his 
veracity  had  been  impugned,  "cross  my  heart  it's 
true!  It's  hangin'  up  down  town  in  front  of  the 
telegrapht  office,  an'  it's  in  the  paper,  too.  I  heard 
ever'hody  talkin'  'bout  it,  hope  to  die  I  did." 

Rankin  stared  at  his  son  an  instant,  and  then 
slowly  turned  his  gaze  on  his  wife.  A  look  had 
come  into  his  face  which  it  grieved  her  to  see,  a 
look  of  utter,  despairing  anguish. 

"Jim,  you  know  you  mistrusted  something,  you 
know  you  did.  You'd  never  own  up  to  it,  but  you 
know  you  did." 


In  Convention  Assembled      363 

Rankin's  lip  quivered,  and  then,  suddenly,  he 
bent  his  elbows,  put  his  arms  on  the  table  before 
him,  and  bowing  his  curly  head  upon  their  enor- 
mous muscles  he  burst  into  tears.  His  huge  back 
heaved  with  his  sobs,  and  his  wife,  hastening 
around  to  him,  put  her  arms  about  his  shoulders, 
laid  her  thin  cheek  to  his  curly  hair,  and  then  as  her 
own  tears  rained  fast,  she  said  at  last: 

"Don't,  Jimmy,  don't;  you'll  break  my  heart.  I 
wouldn't  mind  it — you  can  get  somethin'  else." 

"Oh,  'tain't  that,"  came  his  voice,  "but  I  thought 
he  was  my  friend,  I  thought  he  was  my  friend.  I 
made  that  boy,  an'  I  was  so  proud  of  him.  An' 
now — an'  now — he's  thrown  me  down,  he's  thrown 
me  down!" 

He  ceased  his  sobbing  and  was  still.  His  wife 
stood  by  him,  patting  him  now  on  the  back,  now 
running  her  fingers  through  his  curls.  At  last  he 
raised  himself,  rubbed  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  and, 
pulling  out  his  handkerchief,  blew  his  nose  with  a 
mighty  blast. 

"Your  supper'll  get  cold.  The  old  man's  a  fool, 
hain't  he,  Fannie?"  He  looked  at  his  little  daugh- 
ter, and  then  in  turn  at  them  all^  saw  their  tear- 
stained  faces,  and  then  he  said: 

"Well,  I'm  makin'  a  pleasant  home  an'  fireside 
campaign  fer  ye  here,  hain't  I?  But  I  don't  b'lieve 
it,  that's  all,  I  don't  b'lieve  Jerry  Garwood  'uld 
throw  me  down,  without  some  good  reason.  I 
won't  believe  it  yet.    There's  some  explanation." 

"Jim,"  his  wife  smiled  proudly  at  him,  "they 
say  you're  a  hardened  old  politician,  but  you've  got 


364  The  13  th  District 

too  soft  a  heart.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  somethin' 
'as  up  last  summer  when  you  got  back  from  Pekin? 
Didn't  I  tell  you  somethin'  'as  up  when  you  told  me 
Pusey  had  gone  down  to  Washington?  Didn't  I 
tell  you  you'd  better  go  or  you'd  get  left?" 

"Well,  now,  Mollie,"  he  began  apologetically, 
"you  know  I  didn't  have  the  price  in  the  first  place, 
an'  secon'ly,  Jerry  told  me,  told  me,  with  his  own 
lips,  right  down  there  in  that  old  office  o'  his'n, 
that  it  was — all — right,  that  I  needn't  worry,  that 
he'd  promised  it,  an'  I'd  get  it.  An'  what  'uld  I 
want  to  run  down  to  Washin'ton  botherin'  him 
'bout  it  any  more  fer?  You  know  congressmen 
don't  want  the'r  constits  trailin'  'round  after  'em 
down  there."  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
spread  his  hands  wide,  as  if  to  exculpate  himself 
entirely. 

"Well,  you've  been  in  politics  long  enough  to 
know — "  began  his  wife  with  a  faint  little  sneer. 

"Oh,  course,"  Rankin  interrupted  her,  "if  it  'ad 
been  anybody  else,  I  mightn't  'a'  been  so  easy.  I'd 
a  camped  on  his  trail  till  he  done  it,  but  Jerry — 
Jerry — I  never  thought  it  o'  him."  He  shook  his 
head  sadly. 

"Now,  Jim,  just  look  here  a  minute,"  his  wife 
returned.  "You  told  me  yourself  that  you  noticed 
a  change  in  him  when  he  come  home  from  Wash- 
ington las'  summer.     Now,  didn't  you?" 

"Well,  maybe  there  was  a  little,  but  that  'as  all 
right.  I  expected  that,  I  expected  that  as  he  growed 
bigger  an'  greater,  an'  got  in  'ith  all  them  heavy 
timbers  down  to  Washin'ton  he'd  naturally  grow 


In  Convention  Assembled      365 

away  from  us  some.  I  knowed  he  couldn't  al'ays 
have  a  big  dub  like  me  trailin'  along,  but  I  thought 
he'd  al'ays  be  my  friend.  I  thought  he'd  keep  his 
word."  His  eyes  widened  as  he  lapsed  into  ab- 
straction. 

But  presently  he  roused  himself  with  a  mighty 
shake,  and  reached  across  the  table  with  his  coffee- 
cup  in  his  hand. 

"Another  cup,  Mollie,"  he  said,  "I  don't  believe 
it,"  he  insisted,  setting  his  jaw,  "I  won't  believe  it. 
I'll  go  down  town  to-night  an'  find  out  about  it." 

His  wife  shook  her  head  with  a  little  smile  that 
told  what  an  amiable  hopelessness  there  was  about 
him. 

"And  when  you  find  out  it's  true,  what'll  you 
do  then?"  she  asked,  as  she  gave  him  back  his  cup. 

"Well,"  he  said,  sucking  in  his  mustache,  "I'll 
live  on  here  in  Polk  County,  an'  we'll  continue  to 
have  three  square  meals  per.  But  Jerry'll  have 
some  explanation,  you'll  see." 

"Yes,  I  don't  doubt  that,"  said  Mrs.  Rankin 
dryly. 

The  news  of  the  illness  of  old  Ethan  Harkness — 
men  had  begun  to  call  him  old  when  he  ceased  to 
work — had  been  of  interest  to  Grand  Prairie,  and 
the  return  of  his  daughter  from  Washington  had 
added  a  zest  to  the  interest,  but  it  was  all  forgotten 
in  the  announcement  that  Pusey  had  been  appointed 
postmaster. 

It  had  been  so  generally  recognized  that  Rankin 
,was  to  have  the  appointment,  that  Grand  Prairie 


366  The  i3th  District 

had  been  denied  its  quadrennial  sensation  of  a 
post-office  fight,  and  the  only  feeling  that  the  boys 
had  been  able  to  display  was  one  of  impatience  to 
have  Rankin,  as  a  deserving  and  efficient  party 
worker,  displace  the  old  postmaster  the  instant  the 
new  president  was  inaugurated.  Garwood  had 
explained  time  and  again  that  the  president  was 
determined  to  permit  all  present  office-holders  to 
fill  out  their  terms  before  appointing  new  ones,  and 
he  had  strengthened  his  explanation  by  reminding 
them  that  the  civil  service  rules  were  so  strict  that 
there  was  no  prospect  of  dislodging  the  present  in- 
cumbents of  post-office  places  and  putting  new  men 
in  their  stead. 

Garwood  of  course  sympathized  with  the  boys; 
he  didn't  believe  in  civil  service  reform  himself;  but 
preferred,  he  said,  the  good  old  Jacksonian  doctrine 
of  "to  the  victors  belong  the  spoils,"  but  they  must 
all  see  how  powerless  he  was.  Interest  in  the  post- 
office  situation  accordingly  had  declined,  and  the 
subject  was  scarcely  ever  mentioned,  except  to 
illustrate,  in  curbstone  arguments,  the  absurdities 
of  civil  service  reform.  But  when  the  appointment 
was  made  public,  and  the  boys  realized  that  after  all 
Rankin's  preemption  had  not  held  valid,  and  that 
the  field  had  been  open  all  the  time,  they  felt  they 
had  been  the  victims  of  a  conspiracy,  and  had  been 
cheated  of  one  of  the  rights  vested  inaHenably  in 
the  politician,  if  not  in  the  people. 

Pusey  announced  his  own  appointment  in  the 
Citizen,  simply  enough  and  modestly  enough,  and 
in  the  same  issue  he  referred  to  the  appointment 


In  Convention  Assembled      367 

of  Joseph  Hale  as  postmaster  at  Pekin.  In  another 
column  there  was  a  long  leaded  article  headed 
"Special  Washington  Correspondence,"  and  signed 
with  the  editor's  initials,  and  it  told  of  his  trip  to 
Washington,  of  his  meeting  with  the  great  presi- 
dent, and  of  the  excellent  public  services  their  own 
congressman,  the  Hon.  Jerome  B.  Garwood,  was 
performing.  And  then  it  went  on  with  grave  and 
learned  dissertations  on  political  subjects,  uttered 
with  as  much  authority  as  the  Washington  corres- 
pondents of  the  New  York  and  Chicago  news- 
papers assume  when  they  sit  down  to  write  their 
daily  misrepresentation  of  political  life  at  Wash- 
ington. 

Pusey  received  his  congratulations  without  a 
change  of  expression.  He  went  tapping  along  the 
sidewalk  with  his  little  stick,  plucking  at  the  va- 
grant hairs  on  his  chin  and  chewing  the  stogy  he 
was  smoking,  as  if  nothing  of  moment  had  hap- 
pened. If  the  fact  that  he  had  risen  in  Grand 
Prairie  to  a  place  of  power  and  influence  impressed 
Freeman  H.  Pusey,  his  wizened  face  never  dis- 
played it. 


XXII 


WHEN  Emily  got  out  of  the  frowzy  day 
coach  in  which  she  had  made  the  last 
stage  of  her  long  journey  from  Washing- 
ton and  glanced  along  the  station  platform,  a  sense 
of  her  loneliness,  made  more  acute  because  the  ugly 
scene  was  otherwise  homelike  and  familiar,  rolled 
over  her.  She  had  wired  Doctor  Larkin  from 
OIney,  where  she  had  left  the  St.  Louis  sleeper, 
but  no  one  was  there  to  meet  her,  not  even  old 
Jasper.  She  gasped  at  this  last  of  all  the  evil  por- 
tents of  the  twenty-four  hours  that  had  dragged 
by  like  so  many  weeks  since  she  bade  Jerome  good- 
by  in  Washington — her  father  must  be  worse,  they 
could  not  leave  him. 

The  night  was  cold,  with  a  dampness  that  pierced 
her  marrow,  after  the  foul  atmosphere  of  the  over- 
heated car.  It  had  been  snowing;  some  of  the 
heavy  saturated  flakes  lay  in  patches,  but  now  a 
fine  mist  was  falling,  and  the  greasy  boards  of  the 
station  platform  shone  in  all  the  reflected  lights  of 
the  tired  and  panting  train.  With  the  weary  nurse 
and  the  healthy  baby  that  slept  through  all  these 
trials  in  which  it  was  not  as  yet  his  lot  to  share, 
she  clambered  into  the  old  hack  that  always  stood 
there,  and  there  was  something  of  a  welcome  in 
the  face  of  the  driver  as  he  held  the  door  a  moment 
to  inquire: 

368 


In  Convention  Assembled      369 

"To  Mr.  Harkness's,  ma'am?" 

He  slammed  the  door  and  they  rattled  away.  She 
was  glad  that  he  had  spoken  of  her  father  as  one 
still  alive,  and  all  the  way  home,  as  they  went 
lurching  and  splashing  through  the  December  mud 
that  mired  the  streets,  she  built  her  hopes  upon  this 
little  omen. 

The  old  house  was  dark,  and  the  trees  in  the 
yard  stirred  mournfully  in  the  winds  that  were 
creeping  up  from  the  west.  One  dim  light  shone 
normally  in  the  hall,  but  another,  unusual  and  sin- 
ister, shone  in  the  room  above — her  father's  room. 
The  window  was  closed — she  was  glad  of  that. 
Both  of  the  lights  were  so  dim  that  they  seemed 
only  to  point  the  gloom  that  had  settled  stilly  on 
the  whole  place. 

The  doctor,  coming  forward  with  the  soft  tread 
and  monitory  finger  of  the  sick  room,  met  her  in 
the  hall.     She  rushed  to  him,  and  seized  his  hand. 

"He's  alive?" 

The  doctor  smiled  with  professional  reassurance. 

"Yes,  he's  better  this  evening.  I've  told  him 
you  were  coming." 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes  and  moistened  the  veil 
she  hurriedly  unwound.  She  tore  off  her  wraps, 
and  laid  her  hat  on  the  hall  tree.  She  rubbed  her 
palms  briskly  together,  pressed  her  fingers  to  her 
hair  and  her  temples,  and  then: 

"I'll  go  to  him  at  once." 

She  started  for  the  stairs,  but  paused  there,  lean- 
ing wearily  on  the  baluster. 

"What  is  it,  Doctor,  tell  me?" 


370  The  13  th  District 

"Well,"  the  medical  man  said,  "a.  general  col- 
lapse. He  was  out  Wednesday,  and  it  rained,  and 
he  caught  cold.  Thursday  he  developed  a  bad 
attack  of  the  grippe — and  his  heart  action  is  weak, 
you  know.    He  would  not  give  up." 

"No,  that  was  like  him,"  said  Emily,  as  people 
always  say  of  their  loved  ones  at  such  a  time,  in  the 
effort  to  recognize  their  strong  qualities  ere  it  be 
too  late. 

"He  would  not  give  up  until  Friday,  but  I  made 
him  go  to  bed  then.  The  next  day  I  feared  his 
lungs  were  involved — he  did  not  wish  me  to  send 
for  you." 

Emily  was  blinking  back  her  tears. 

"But  I  thought  it  best.  He  will  improve  now,  I 
am  confident,  and  if  we  can  control  the  pulmonary 
difficulty,  I  am  sure  of  it." 

She  had  turned  and  hastily  gathering  her  skirts, 
ran  up  the  stairs.  She  hesitated  a  moment  in 
the  doorway  of  his  room,  and  by  the  dim  light 
of  the  tiny  star  of  gas  saw  the  outlines  of  the 
form  under  the  white  counterpane.  She  fluttered 
across  to  the  bed,  and  sank  softly  beside  him.  She 
laid  her  hand  on  his  hot  dry  brow. 

"Father — Fve  come." 

The  old  man  stirred  and  tried  to  turn  his  head. 

"Fm  glad,"  he  said.    "It  was  a  long  ways." 

"Fm  going  to  nurse  you,  and  make  you  well," 
she  said  with  a  cheer  in  her  voice  of  which  her 
heart  was  void. 

The  doctor  pleaded  for  a  trained  nurse,  but 
Emily,  with  the  old-fashioned  prejudice  of  women, 


In  Convention  Assembled      371 

indignantly  refused,  as  though  the  mere  idea  in- 
volved some  reflection  upon  her  own  powers,  and 
her  own  constancy.  For  a  week  she  watched  by 
his  side,  and  waited  on  him^  taking  his  temperature 
hourly,  and  keeping  a  clinical  chart  like  those  she 
had  seen  in  the  hospitals,  in  the  old  days  of  her 
charities,  determined  that  the  lack  of  a  trained 
nurse  should  not  be  felt.  And  then  the  congestion 
in  his  lungs  passed,  he  breathed  easily  once  more, 
his  fever  broke,  and  he  lay,  weak  and  faint,  but 
smiling  at  her. 


XXIII 


HARKNESS  gained  steadily  for  a  week,  and 
then  he  began  to  grow  restless  and  intract- 
able. His  whims  and  exactions  exhausted 
Emily's  strength,  and  when  he  could  think  of  noth- 
ing else  for  her  to  do,  he  at  last  demanded  that  she 
read  to  him,  and  she  had  to  settle  to  this  labor, 
though  her  spirits  wholly  lacked  that  sense  of  leisure 
and  repose  so  necessary  to  the  enjoyment  of  such  a 
task.  He  chose  his  old  favorite,  Scott,  and  for  hours 
each  afternoon,  until  the  early  twilight  gathered  in 
the  room,  she  read  to  him  from  the  novels  he  had 
loved  so  long.  It  was  a  test  of  her  devotion,  for  she 
had  long  since  outgrown  Scott,  as  she  had  been  fond 
of  declaring,  but  he  would  not  hear  to  Howells,  nor 
Meredith,  nor  Hardy,  nor  any  of  the  moderns. 

One  afternoon  the  doctor  entered  the  room  in 
the  midst  of  the  reading.  He  heard  Emily's  low, 
placid  voice  as  he  noiselessly  approached  the  room 
upstairs  where  his  patient  lay: 

"  'At  length  the  Norman  received  a  blow  which, 
though  its  force  was  partly  parried  by  his  shield, 
for  otherwise  nevermore  would  De  Bracy  have 
again  moved  limb,  descended  yet  with  such  violence 
on  his  crest  that  he  measured  his  length  on  the 
paved  floor.'  " 

Emily  closed  the  book  upon  her  finger  as  he 
entered  and  stood  just  inside  the  door  with  the 
372 


In  Convention  Assembled      373 

smell  of  the  cold  air  and  his  own  cigar  upon  him, 
but  her  father  reared  himself  on  his  elbow,  and, 
shaking  his  tousled  gray  head,  said: 

"We're  just  storming  a  castle,  Doc.  You  sit 
down  and  wait,  and  then  I'll  attend  to  you." 

The  doctor  smiled. 

"I  guess  you're  getting  along  all  right  without 
me  any  more,"  he  said.  And  Emily  took  up  her 
tale: 

"  '  "Yield  thee,  De  Bracy,"  said  the  Black  Cham- 
pion, stooping  over  him,  and  holding  against  the 
bars  of  his  helmet  the  fatal  poniard — ' " 

He  was  bolstered  up  in  a  big  chair  by  the  time 
Christmas  drew  on,  and  Emily  was  bustling  hap- 
pily about  the  house  hanging  wreaths  of  holly  in 
the  windows,  and  striving  to  draw  out  of  all  the 
uncertainties  of  the  time  a  spirit  of  holiday  warmth 
and  cheer.  She  wrote  Jerome  all  the  details  of  the 
little  celebration  she  was  planning,  and  warned  him 
to  be  home  in  time  to  hang  up  the  baby's  stocking 
for  Christmas.  By  way  of  further  inducement  she 
said  she  had  many  things  to  tell  him,  though  they 
could  hardly  have  piqued  his  curiosity,  for  she 
straightway  proceeded  to  relate  them.  She  had  had, 
for  instance,  a  long  letter  from  Dade,  announcing 
dramatically  that  she  and  her  mother  were  coming 
home.  They  were  tired  of  Europe,  and  her  en- 
gagement with  the  German  baron  was  broken.  She 
felt,  after  all,  so  she  wrote,  that  she  would  rather 
marry  an  American — as  if  marriage  were  the  whole 
duty  of  woman. 

The  ugly  stories  about  Pusey's  appointment  as 


374  The  i3th  District 

postmaster,  and  of  the  dire  results  to  follow,  had 
reached  Emily,  penetrating  even  to  that  shaded 
sick  room,  but  of  these  she  did  not  write.  She  had 
too  many  perplexities  already,  and  with  a  power  she 
could  command  in  certain  mental  crises  she  put 
this  subject  aside,  awaiting  Jerome's  coming  and 
his  explanation,  and  resolutely  setting  her  heart 
toward  the  happier  aspect  of  things  she  was  al- 
ways seeing  in  the  future. 

Congress  adjourned  for  the  holidays  on  Wed- 
nesday, but  it  was  not  until  the  following  Monday 
that  Garwood  reached  Grand  Prairie.  Emily  had 
expected  him  Friday;  the  Chicago  congressmen, 
as  she  had  read  in  the  newspapers  of  that  city,  had 
reached  home  on  that  day,  been  duly  interviewed, 
and  allowed  to  lapse  into  their  customary  obscurity, 
but  Jerome  delayed  and  no  word  came.  When  he 
did  drive  up  to  the  house  Monday  evening,  tired 
and  worn  with  traveling,  he  explained  that  a  con- 
ference had  detained  him.  Emily  did  not  display 
her  usual  interest  in  politics  by  pressing  for  de- 
tails of  the  conference.  There  were  things,  she 
was  slowly  learning,  that  it  were  better  to  let  pass. 

She  had  kept  his  supper  warm  for  him,  and  as 
soon  as  he  had  cleansed  himself  of  the  stains  of 
travel,  and  had  a  look  at  the  baby  sleeping  rosily 
in  his  crib,  she  had  it  laid  in  the  dining-room.  She 
sat  across  the  table  from  him  with  the  coffee  urn 
before  her. 

"How's  father?"  he  asked. 

"He's  better — but  weak.  He  must  not  go  out 
this  winter.     His  heart's  affected,"  she  whispered, 


In  Convention  Assembled      375 

turning  about  with  the  soft-voiced  mystery  of  a 
secret.  "He  mustn't  know  it.  He's  in  low  spirits, 
and  the  doctor  says  I'll  have  to  stay  more  closely 
with  him  and  watch  him."  Her  voice  fell  as  she 
repeated  this  judgment. 

"Hm-m-m,"  Garwood  mused.  He  stirred  the 
sugar  into  his  coffee,  and  then,  as  if  seeking  livelier 
topics,  he  said: 

"So  Dade's  coming  home,  is  she?" 

"Yes;    isn't  it  too  bad  about  her  engagement?" 

"No,  I  think  not — those  foreigners  are  mostly  a 
bad  lot." 

"She  says  she'll  have  to  marry  an  American." 

"Does  she  have  to  get  married?" 

Emily  smiled  faintly. 

"She  seems  to  think  so." 

"Mother  well?"  Garwood  asked. 

"Yes — ^you  must  go  right  over  and  see  her." 

"I'm  pretty  tired  to-night." 

"Yes,  I  know,  Jerome,  but  It  wouldn't  do.  You 
must  go  right  away  when  you  have  done  your 
supper." 

Having  thus  disposed  of  all  the  necessary  topics, 
Garwood  rather  hesitatingly  approached  the  subject 
that  lay  on  the  hearts  of  both. 

"How  does  the  post-office  appointment  seem  to 
strike  them?" 

He  kept  his  eyes  downward  on  the  cigarette  he 
was  pinching. 

"I  don't  hear  much  about  it,"  Emily  answered. 

And  she  colored.  "You  read  the  papers,  of  course." 

"Of  course,"  he  answered,  "but  you  can't  tell 


376  The  i3th  District 

anything  from  them.     What  did  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  was  surprised." 

"Surprised?" 

"Yes." 

"What  at?" 

"At  you." 

"Me?" 

"Yes." 

A  heavy  silence  fell,  and  Emily  sat  there,  her 
eyes  on  the  silver  sugar  bowl  she  slowly  fitted  to  a 
design  in  the  tablecloth.  Her  lips,  though,  were 
set,  and  Garwood,  stealing  a  glance  at  them,  moved 
uneasily.  Here  was  the  first  of  his  constituents  he 
must  reckon  with. 

"Well,  Pusey'll  make  a  good  postmaster,"  he 
ventured  at  last,  seeing  that  she  was  not  likely  to 
speak. 

"Doubtless,"  she  replied.  "I  hardly  thought, 
though,  that  political  appointments  were  a  question 
of  fitness  nowadays." 

"I  thought  you  were  a  civil  service  reformer," 
Garwood  answered,  trying  to  laugh.  But  her  lips 
remained  obdurately  tight,  and  he  saw  what  her 
conscience  would  hold  him  to. 

"I  had  supposed  Mr.  Rankin  was  to  be  appointed 
postmaster." 

Garwood  did  not  reply  at  once. 

"Rankin  seems  to  have  become  quite  a  protege  of 
yours,"  he  ventured  at  last. 

"I  used  to  feel,"  she  promptly  replied,  "that  we 
were  in  some  sort  proteges  of  his." 

Garwood  could  not  contain  himself  longer. 


In  Convention  Assembled      377 

"Well,  Vm  getting  tired  of  having  people  talk 
as  if  Jim  Rankin  owned  me !  I'll  show  'em !"  he 
ended  stubbornly. 

"But,  Jerome,"  she  said,  raising  her  eyes  at  last, 
and  fixing  them  on  his,  "you  promised  him — didn't 
you?" 

He  wadded  his  napkin  and  flung  it  petulantly  on 
the  table. 

"There  it  goes !"  he  said,  as  he  scraped  back  his 
chair.  "I  supposed  some  such  story  would  get  out." 

"But,  didn't  you?"  she  persisted. 

Under  her  insistence  he  arose  from  the  table 
irascibly.  He  stood  looking  at  her  while  a  hard 
smile  rose  to  his  lips. 

"You're  deeply  concerned  for  Rankin,  aren't 
you?" 

"Jerome,"  she  said  quietly,  looking  at  him  with 
wide,  unwinking  eyes,  "it  is  not  Mr.  Rankin  I  am 
concerned  for — not  for  him  half  so  much  as  for 
you." 

He  was  led  into  sarcasm  for  a  moment. 

"You  are  quite  solicitous — "  he  began,  and  then 
evidently  thinking  better  of  it^  he  tried  to  laugh 
her  out  of  her  seriousness. 

"It's  no  use,  Em,"  he  said  patronizingly,  as  he 
lighted  his  cigarette,  "you  women  can  never  under- 
stand politics." 

"We  understand  honor,  though,"  she  said,  "al- 
though men,  in  their  personal  way  of  allotting  the 
attributes  to  the  sexes,  say  we  don't." 

He  gave  her  a  reproachful  look,  and  left. 

When  he  had  gone,  she  went  to  her  own  room. 


378  The  13th   District 

Her  heart  was  beating  wildly.  "I  never  spoke  so 
to  him  before,"  she  wailed  in  her  heart.  "I  never 
spoke  so  to  him  before!"  And  then  she  flung  her- 
self full  length  across  her  bed,  and  burst  into  the 
tears  that  had  long  been  flooding  her  heart  to  the 
very  brim. 


XXIV 


GARWOOD  came  out  the  little  door  in  the 
oaken  partition  that  walled  the  private  office 
of  the  post-master  at  Grand  Prairie,  but- 
toned his  long  overcoat  carefully  about  him,  and 
drew  on  his  gloves.  He  had  been  basking  for  half 
an  hour  in  the  loyal  gratitude  of  the  newly  success- 
ful office-seeker,  for  he  had  just  left  Pusey  sitting 
rather  uncomfortably  at  the  well-ordered  desk  to 
which  he  had  succeeded,  whereon  there  were  as 
yet  no  dirty  paste-pot,  no  enormous  scissors,  and  no 
cockroaches  fleeing  from  the  wrath  to  come. 

What  qualms  Emily  had  raised  in  Garwood's 
breast  the  night  before  had  been  wholly  soothed  by 
the  adroit  little  editor  who  now  was  become  the 
artful  little  postmaster,  and  in  the  outlining  of 
Pusey's  convincing  plans  for  a  strong  and  resistless 
machine,  not  only  in  Polk  County,  but  in  the  entire 
district,  Garwood  felt  the  sweetness  of  a  new  se- 
curity steal  over  him.  He  passed  down  by  the  long 
rows  of  lock-boxes,  their  little  red  numbers  show- 
ing smartly  on  their  little  brass  doors,  and  turned 
toward  the  wall  to  avoid  the  crowd  that  pressed  up 
to  the  stamp  window  to  have  their  Christmas 
packages  weighed  and  mailed.  Suddenly  he  saw 
Rankin. 

The  big  fellow  was  coming  on  breathing  heavily, 
with  his  overcoat  flapping  wide  and  his  hands 
379 


38o  The  i3th   District 

thrust  deep  in  its  outer  pockets.  His  sloucH  hat 
was  back  on  his  brow,  which  was  beaded  with  per- 
spiration, and  the  drizzle  of  the  hoHday  rain  clung 
to  his  ruddy  mustache.  Garwood's  heart  leaped 
into  his  throat  when  he  saw  him  and  he  felt  his 
lips  draw  tense  with  nervousness,  but  he  made  one 
mighty  effort,  and  had  himself  under  control  be- 
fore Rankin  raised  his  eyes  to  recognize  him.  In 
an  instant  they  were  face  to  face.  Garwood  smiled 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Jim,  my  boy,"  he  cried  cheerily,  "how  are  you? 
I'm  glad  to—" 

Rankin  halted,  his  hands  still  plunged  deep  in 
the  pockets  of  his  overcoat.  His  face  grew  redder, 
if  possible,  while  Garwood's  became  very  white. 
Rankin  looked  Garwood  all  over,  from  his  carefully 
dented  hat  to  his  boots,  still  showing  the  shine  he 
had  had  put  on  them  at  the  Cassell  House,  though 
their  soles  were  now  caked  with  the  rich  Illinois 
mud  the  farmers  had  dragged  into  town  on  their 
wagon  wheels.  He  looked  him  all  over  carefully, 
and  then,  with  a  contemptuous  little  laugh: 

''Well— I'll— be— damned !"  he  said  slowly. 

Garwood  withdrew  the  hand  he  had  outstretched 
and  held  there  so  awkwardly,  but  he  fancied  there 
might  be  hope  for  him  in  Rankin's  words,  which 
would  have  served  him  as  well  to  express  his 
abundant  good  nature  in  other  exigencies,  as  they 
did  to  show  his  anger  and  surprise  in  this. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  he  repeated,  "I  didn't 
s'pose  you'd  have  the  nerve !" 

Garwood   flushed.     The   shuffle  of   feet  on  the 


In  Convention  Assembled      381 

tiled  floor  had  died  into  an  attentive  stillness.  He 
knew  that  the  throng  was  looking  on  absorbed  in 
this  most  interesting  meeting  that  all  the  possibili- 
ties of  chance  could  have  brought  about  in  Grand 
Prairie  that  day.  Garwood  flushed  and  longed  to 
escape. 

"Come  on,"  he  began,  in  a  confidential  tone, 
"over  to  my  ofiice.  I  was  just  going  to  hunt  you 
up.     I  wanted  to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

"No,  you  wasn't,  either,"  Rankin  exploded,  "you 
damned  liar  you,  you  wasn't  goin'  to  hunt  me  up; 
you  know  it,  an'  I  know  it.  You  'as  afraid  to  see 
me,  you  big  stiflf,  an'  you  haven't  got  an'thin'  to  say 
to  me  either.  I've  had  enough  o'  your  talk  now, 
an'  I  don't  want  no  more  of  it.  What  talkin'  's 
done  hereafter,  I'll  do  myself,  an'  I'll  begin  it  right 
now,  an'  right  here — this  place's  good  as  any." 

Garwood  had  drawn  himself  erect^  and  was 
struggling  with  his  congressional  dignity. 

"Let  me  pass,  sir!"  he  said,  as  sternly  as  he 
could. 

Rankin  drew  a  hand  from  his  coat  pocket,  and 
stretched  it  toward  Garwood.  The  congressman 
threw  up  his  forearm  as  if  to  Avard  a  blow,  but 
Rankin  caught  him  by  the  collar  of  his  coat.  He 
smiled  pityingly. 

"Oh,  don't  git  skeered,"  he  said,  "I  hain't  goin' 
to  hurt  you," 

"Remove  your  hand  from  me  instantly,  sir!" 
said  Garwood,  white  with  rage. 

But  Rankin  held  him  fast  in  his  big  grip,  and 
slowly  backed  him  to  the  wall,  and  held  him  there. 


382  The  1 3  th  District 

his  head  against  the  colored  lithograph  of  soldiers 
decked  in  gala  dress  uniforms,  hung  there  to  lure 
honest  country  lads  to  the  recruiting  office  over  at 
Springfield  and  so  into  the  regular  army. 

"Now,  you  listen  at  me!"  said  Rankin.  "You're 
a  liar  an'  you're  a  coward;  you're  a  low-down, 
contemptible  houn',  you're  a  damned  sight  worser'n 
Pusey  settin'  in  there;  I  just  tell  you  this  to  let 
you  know  what  I  think  o'  you.  An'  now  I  want 
to  serve  notice  on  you,  here'n  now,  publicly,  that 
Jim  Rankin's  goin'  to  go  right  on  livin'  in  this 
man's  town,  that  he's  goin'  to  figur'  some  in  poli- 
tics, that  he's  ag'in  you,  an'  that  you'd  best  get  all 
you  can  out  o'  this  term  in  Congress,  fer  I  give  you 
fair  warnin'  that  you're  servin'  your  last  term.  I'm 
ag'in  you,  an'  I'm  agoin'  to  camp  down  on  your 
trail  from  this  on,  an'  if  you  have  the  gall  to  show 
your  face  fer  renomination  ag'in,  I'll  make  it  my 
business  to  git  you — an'  I'll  git  you !" 

Rankin  was  breathing  hard. 

"Now,  you  can  go,  damn  you,"  he  said,  and  he 
released  his  hold  on  Garwood. 

The  congressman  stood,  his  eyes  glaring  impo- 
tent rage  out  of  a  blank  white  face.  They  stood 
thus  for  a  full  minute,  and  then  Garwood,  read- 
justing his  overcoat  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
turned  to  walk  away.  The  throng  that  had  pressed 
closely  about  them  silently  parted  to  make  a  way 
for  him,  and  he  passed  out  of  their  midst.  Rankin 
stood  and  gazed  after  him.  He  stood  and  gazed, 
and  the  people  standing  by  in  painful  silence 
watched  with  him  the  figure  of  Garwood,  rapidly^ 


In  Convention  Assembled      383 

making  for  the  door,  held  as  erectly  and  as  digni- 
fiedly  as  he  could,  for  the  man  had  need  of  all  his 
dignity  then.  Rankin  watched  him  out  of  sight. 
Then  he  turned.  The  crowd  had  found  tongue, 
and  a  hum  of  voices  arose.  Several  tried  to  speak 
to  him. 

"Served  him  just  right,"  some  one  began,  sym- 
pathetically. 

"You  go  to  hell,"  said  Rankin,  brushing  the 
startled  man  aside.  And  then  he  went  away,  for- 
getting to  post  the  Christmas  letter  his  wife  had 
intrusted  to  him. 

Out  in  the  drizzling  holiday  streets,  Garwood 
hurried  along,  sick  with  the  humiliation  of  the 
scene,  but  as  he  thought  of  it,  his  old  habit  of  self- 
pity  reasserted  itself,  and  with  this  ruse  he  tried 
to  lure  back  some  of  his  old  self-respect.  So  well 
did  he  succeed  that  when  he  reached  home  he  was 
red  with  wrath  and  muttering.  Emily,  from  her 
window,  saw  him  coming,  and  hastened  to  meet  him 
at  the  door. 

"Why,  Jerome,  what  is  the  matter?"  she  cried, 
when  she  saw  his  face. 

He  flung  off  his  overcoat  and  hurled  his  hat  at 
the  rack. 

"Well,  I've  seen  your  friend,  Jim  Rankin." 

"Jim  Rankin?"  she  exclaimed.  "What  in  the 
world  has  happened?" 

"I  never  was  so  mortified  in  my  life !  I  never 
endured  such  insolence,  such  ignominy,  such 
abuse !" 

"Why — tell  me — dear,  where  was  it?" 


384  The  13  th   District 

"In  the  post-office,  in  the  most  public  place  in 
town,  before  a  crowd  of  people — Ach !"  He  shook 
his  head  in  disgust  and  wrath. 

"Why,  what  did  he  say — tell  me !"  Emily  almost 
screamed. 

"I  met  him  accidentally,  I  greeted  him,  I  told  him 
I  wished  to  see  him,  to  talk  to  him.  I  was  going 
to  take  care  of  him — I  had  it  all  arranged  to  fix 
the  whole  damned  business — " 

"Jerome !" 

He  had  never  sworn  in  her  presence  before. 

"But  he  wouldn't  listen,"  he  rushed  on.  "He 
poured  out  upon  me  a  perfect  torrent  of  profanity 
and  obscenity;  it  was  disgusting,  humiliating;  I 
should  have  struck  him  down !" 

"But  you  didn't?"  she  asked,  and  her  tone  made 
her  question  half  a  plea.  She  bent  toward  him 
and  laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"No — I  walked  away." 

"That  was  right,"  she  smiled,  "that  was  the  dig- 
nified way." 

She  looked  at  him  in  her  sympathy.  She  had  all 
the  morning  regretted  her  words  of  the  evening 
before,  though  they  had  not  recurred  to  them  at  all 
in  the  time  intervening.  And  she  was  glad  of 
some  excuse  for  ridding  her  breast  of  the  convic- 
tion out  of  which  those  words  had  been  spoken. 

"I  haven't  any  sympathy  for  him  at  all!"  she 
exclaimed.  "I  did  think— but  this  shows  me  how 
wrong  I  was,  how  I  misjudged  you.  Can  you  for- 
give me,  dear?" 

She  held  her  face  close  to  his,  and  he  stooped  and 
kissed  her. 


BOOK  III 

FOR  THE  PEOPLE 


AGAIN  the  spring  had  come  to  Illinois,  spill- 
ing the  prairie  flowers  over  the  pastures,  and 
warming  the  pleasant  smelHng  earth  which 
the  mold-boards  of  the  plows  rolled  back  in  rich 
loamy  waves  to  make  ready  for  the  corn.  In  the 
town  the  trees  rustled  their  new  leaves  in  the  wind 
that  blows  forever  across  the  miles  of  prairie  land, 
and  the  lawns  along  Sangamon  Avenue  were  of  a 
tender  green,  as  their  blue  grass  sprouted  again 
under  rake  and  roller.  The  birds  were  as  busy  as 
men,  and  everywhere,  under  the  high  blue  sky, 
were  the  sounds  that  come  with  the  awakening 
world,  the  glad  sounds  of  preparation  for  every 
new  endeavor. 

The  windows  of  the  Harkness  home  were  open, 
their  lace  curtains  blowing  white  and  cool  in  the 
young  winds.  Yet  there,  all  was  still.  Upstairs, 
on  his  bed,  with  his  hands  folded  whitely  under 
the  sheet  that  was  smoothed  across  his  breast, 
Ethan  Harkness  lay  dead. 

They  buried  him  at  Oakwood,  just  outside  the 
town,  beside  the  wife  who  had  gone  there  so  many 
springs  before;  buried  him  by  the  bulky  monu- 
ment he  had  raised,  in  his  methodical  business 
way,  long  ago.  Its  broad  base  glimmered  be- 
tween the  trees,  and  from  afar,  the  raised  letters  of 
his  name  could  be  read.  The  directors  of  the  bank 
387 


388  The  13  th  District 

where  he  had  spent  his  Hfe,  the  bank  he  had 
founded,  testified  a  belated  appreciation  of  his  vir- 
tues by  adopting  a  long  series  of  resolutions  in 
which  they  submissively  ascribed  to  an  all-wise  and 
inscrutable  Providence  the  dispensation  which  they 
had  done  their  part  to  hasten.  They  ordered,  too, 
that  the  curtains  of  the  bank  be  pulled  down  on  the 
day  of  his  funeral,  and  the  door  placarded 
"Closed,"  though  old  Morton  was  kept  there  to 
collect  the  notes  and  interest  falling  due  that  day. 

Then  some  ancient  citizen,  who  was  spending  his 
declining  years  in  chronicling  for  his  own  satisfac- 
tion the  insignificant  happenings  of  each  day,  chiefly 
the  temperature  and  the  times  and  local  effect  of 
frost,  reminded  the  city  council  that  Harkness  had 
once,  long  years  before,  sat  as  a  member  of  that 
body,  and  it  likewise  adopted  resolutions.  The 
local  lodge  of  Masons  took  charge  of  his  funeral, 
after  Doctor  Abercrombie  of  St.  James  had  read 
the  service  in  his  beautiful  voice,  and  recited  one  of 
his  little  compositions. 

And  when  Pusey  had  published  an  obituary  in 
his  best  elegiac  style,  all  the  conventions  were  con- 
sidered as  having  been  duly  observed,  and  the  town 
turned  from  its  tribute  to  the  dead,  to  judge  Hark- 
ness for  his  deeds  to  the  living  who  remained  be- 
hind. 

His  will  was  proffered  for  probate  in  the  County 
Court  some  days  after  his  funeral.  It  had  been 
drawn  ten  years  before,  and  as  drawn  originally, 
left  all  his  property  to  Emily,  save  a  small  bequest 
to  a  sister  who  lived  somewhere  in  far-off  New 


The   Final    Returns  389 

Hampshire.  But  a  codicil,  drawn  two  years  before 
his  death,  altered  this  original  provision.  To  Gar- 
wood, he  directed  that  one  thousand  dollars  in  cash 
be  paid  by  his  executors,  and  the  rest  and  residue 
of  his  property  of  every  kind,  nature  and  descrip- 
tion, real,  personal  and  mixed,  he  left  in  trust  for 
his  beloved  daughter  Emily  during  her  lifetime, 
and  at  her  death,  to  her  children,  heirs  of  her  body, 
in  equal  shares.  Garwood  was  not  named  as  one 
of  the  trustees. 

The  will,  of  course,  was  not  satisfactory  to  any 
one  in  Grand  Prairie.  There  were  many  there  who 
had  pictured  to  themselves  their  young  congress- 
man in  the  role  of  a  lawyer  without  a  practice,  but 
with  a  predilection  for  politics,  and  a  young  wife 
of  independent  means.  They  knew  how  well  he 
could  cut  this  eminently  respectable  figure,  and 
they  had  some  dim  conception  of  the  service  he 
could  render  in  theoretical  reform,  if  he  only  had 
money  enough  to  place  him  above  the  vulgar 
necessities  of  the  common  politician. 

Garwood  himself  suffered  keenly,  though  his 
pride  was  hardly  touched  as  much  as  Emily's.  He 
had  had  dreams  himself,  but  now — he  closed  his 
memory  to  them.  He  even  told  Emily  that  he 
would  not  touch  the  thousand  dollars,  but  finally 
consented  to  do  so  in  order  to  please  her.  And 
then  he  suddenly  remembered  that  the  mortgage 
he  had  placed  on  his  mother's  house  was  due  once 
more  that  fall  and  he  could  think  of  no  more  pious 
use  than  that  to  which  to  put  the  money.  He  was 
consoled,  however,  when  the  inventory  of  the  estate 


390  The  13  th   District 

revealed  the  fact  that  Harkness's  property  had 
either  been  vastly  overestimated,  or  had  lately 
shrunk  in  values,  and  he  learned  in  the  court- 
house gossip  of  the  lawyers,  that  certain  unprofit- 
able investments  Harkness  made  during  the  last 
years  of  his  life,  had  excited  the  fears  of  the  bank 
directors,  and  led  them  to  remove  him  from  his 
wonted  sphere  of  activity. 

Emily,  in  the  delicacy  that  embarrasses  refined 
natures  in  money  matters,  was  glad  when  the  busi- 
ness of  settling  the  estate  was  so  far  under  way  as 
to  require  her  own  attention  no  longer.  She 
thought  it  indeed  concluded,  though  the  executors, 
being  old,  and  rich  already,  relished  the  two  per 
cent,  commissions  allowed  them  by  law  and  scented 
a  possible  extra  allowance  by  the  county  judge  as 
a  reward  for  faithful  services.  So  they  dragged  the 
settlement  along,  picked  out  the  choicest  notes  from 
Harkness's  tin  box  for  themselves  and  dreaded  the 
time  when  they  would  have  to  turn  over  so  meaty 
a  carcass  to  the  trustees,  who  were  itching  to  take 
hold. 

Emily's  grief  at  her  father's  death  was  deep,  but 
placid,  as  grief  for  the  aged  must  always  be.  She 
and  Jerome  lived  on  at  the  old  house,  though  he 
often  bemoaned  the  expense  of  keeping  up  so  large 
an  establishment,  and  discussed  taking  a  smaller 
place.  But  they  stayed  on  there,  and  the  summer 
passed,  quickly,  as  summers  do  in  the  intemperate 
zone,  where  winter  in  one  form  or  another  rages 
nine  months  in  the  year. 

And  Emily  tried  to  think  of  her  husband  in  her 


The   Final    Returns  391 

old  ideal  of  him^  because  she  was  soon  to  become  a 
mother  again. 

It  was  late  October  and  old  Mrs.  Garwood,  who 
spent  much  of  her  time  now  with  Emily,  sat  in 
the  hbrary  with  her.  They  had  a  fire  in  the  grate, 
the  first  of  the  season,  and  it  cheered  the  somber 
room. 

Outside  the  rain  fell,  and  the  wet  leaves  flutter- 
ing down  from  the  trees  in  the  yard,  brushed  the 
window  panes  before  settling  into  the  damp  masses 
that  choked  the  walks  and  the  gutters.  They  had 
sat  a  long  time  in  the  bliss  of  silent  companionship, 
these  two  women,  who,  though  of  such  a  different 
training  and  tradition,  understood  each  other  very 
well.  They  had  been  talking  of  housekeeping  and 
the  increased  expense  of  living.  Old  Mrs.  Garwood 
had  sighed. 

"I  wouldn't  mind  nothing,"  she  said,  "if  my 
mortgage  was  only — " 

"If  your  mortgage — ?"  Emily  let  the  garment 
in  her  fingers  fall  with  her  hands  into  her  lap,  and 
looked  up  with  the  question  written  large  in  her 
wide  eyes. 

"Yes,  it's  due,  an'  Mr.  Dawson's  pressin'  me. 
Tschk,  tschk,  tschk!  I  don't  know,  unless  Jerome 
— but  I  don't  like  to  bother  him,  poor  boy." 

"I  thought — "  but  Emily  checked  herself.  She 
took  up  the  little  dress  she  had  been  working  on. 
John  Ethan,  who  had  been  writhing  restlessly  at 
her  feet,  looked  suddenly  into  his  mother's  face. 


392  The  13  th  District 

and  something  there  silenced  him,  so  that  he  was 
very  quiet. 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  she  and 
Jerome  were  alone. 

"Jerome,"  Emily  said  in  the  voice  that  made  him 
lay  down  his  paper,  and  look  up  with  serious  eyes, 
"Jerome,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  pay  off 
mother's  mortgage  for  her." 

"You  did?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  so?" 

"Why,  you  said  so,  at  the  time,  you  remember." 

"At  what  time?" 

"Well,  when  you  got  your  thousand  dollars 
from—" 

"Oh,  am  I  never  to  hear  the  last  of  that  thousand 
dollars !"  Garwood  exclaimed,  dashing  his  paper  to 
the  floor.  "Must  I  always  have  that  thrown  up  to 
me!  I  wish  I'd  never  seen  it!" 

"It  isn't  that,  Jerome,  you  told  me  you  had  paid 
mother's  mortgage  with  it,  that's  all." 

Garwood  looked  at  her  angrily  a  moment. 

"You're  mistaken  there,  I  reckon,  you  must  be 
mistaken.  I  said,  perhaps,  that  I  would  pay  it  off 
with  that,  but  not  that  I  had.  I  did  intend  to,  but 
I  had  to  use  the  money  in  another  place.  I — "  But 
he  could  proceed  no  further  then.  He  was  think- 
ing of  the  big  poker  game  in  the  Leland  the  night 
the  state  central  committee  met  at  Springfield. 

Emily  dropped  the  subject  from  her  conversa- 
tion, but  she  did  not  drop  it  from  her  thoughts. 
It  was  with  her  all  that  day,  and  it  was  the  first 


The    Final    Returns  393 

thing  in  her  mind  the  next  morning.  So  incessantly 
did  it  recur  to  her,  that,  in  search  of  reHef,  she 
went  finally  to  the  bank.  She  asked  for  old  Mcrton, 
and  when  he  shuffled  up  to  the  window,  she  made 
him  go  with  her  back  to  the  directors'  room, 
haunted  as  it  was  with  memories  of  her  father. 

"They  sell  mortgages  sometimes,  don't  they?" 
she  asked  as  soon  as  they  were  alone. 

"Yes,  yes,"  her  father's  old  clerk  replied,  de- 
lighted at  being  consulted  confidentially  in  matters 
of  finance. 

"And  could  you  get  one  for  me,  if  I  gave  you  the 
money,  and  told  you  the  one?" 

He  smiled,  as  he  had  seen  his  superiors  smile. 
It  would  be  a  treat  for  him  to  buy  someone's  mort- 
gage. She  told  him,  and  he  scratched  his  head  a 
moment.  "I  think,"  he  said,  "that's  over't  the  Polk 
National;    I  ain't  sure  now,  but  it  seems  to  me — " 

"Well,  find  out,"  said  Emily,  and  the  old  man 
started. 

"You  spoke  just  like  your  father  then,"  he  said, 
in  a  mild,  reminiscent  way  that  touched  her. 

He  managed  the  matter  for  her  in  the  end,  and 
she  bought  the  mortgage  by  borrowing  the  money 
of  one  of  her  trustees,  who  said  he  was  glad  to 
advance  it  to  her,  though  he  was  careful  to  take 
out  the  interest  for  himself  in  advance. 

Emily  had  the  mortgage  canceled,  and  took  it 
herself  to  her  mother-in-law  that  night. 

"Here  it  is,  mother,"  she  said,  "Jerome  had  for- 
gotten it.    You  know  how  neglectful  he  is !"   And 


394  The  i3th  District 

she  smiled,  as  if  she  had  named  a  virtue  in  the 
man. 

"Law,  yes !"  said  Mrs.  Garwood,  folding  the 
mortgage  in  her  trembling  fingers.  "Bless  the  boy ! 
He  always  puts  things  off,  but  he  never  forgets  his 
poor  old  mother  in  the  end!" 


11 


THE  Emersons  had  arrived  in  Washington  at 
the  beginning  of  February.  Their  trunks, 
scuffed  with  constant  travel  but  given  a  cos- 
mopoHtan  air  of  distinction  by  the  etiquettes  with 
which  they  were  plastered,  were  ranged  around  the 
room  in  which  the  Emersons  had  quartered  them- 
selves at  the  Arlington,  and  stood  with  yawning 
lids,  ready  for  Dade  to  dive  into  them  after  some 
new  toilet  with  which  to  astound  the  guests  when 
she  swept  into  the  dining-room. 

Her  mother,  spent  by  the  long  winter  voyage, 
had  collapsed  upon  arrival,  and  had  taken  her 
meals  in  her  room,  vowing  that  if  she  could  reach 
Grand  Prairie  alive,  she  would  never  leave  there 
again.  She  was  anxious  now,  to  have  Doctor 
Larkin  undertake  her  cure.  No  one,  she  assured 
Dade,  had  ever  understood  her  case  as  well  as  he, 
and  no  one  had  ever  helped  her  as  he  had  helped 
her.  She  longed  to  start  for  home  immediately; 
but  she  did  not  feel  equal  to  the  trip  just  then;  it 
would  be  necessary  for  her  to  remain  in  Washing- 
ton awhile  and  gather  strength  for  the  journey. 

Meanwhile,  as  she  lingered,  Dade  gloried  in  the 
Washington  spring.  She  had  become  enthusiastic- 
ally American.  She  visited  all  the  guide-book 
places  about  Washington ;  she  said  she  was  making 
a  study  of  American  history.  In  a  week  during 
395 


396  The  i3th  District 

which  she  had  met  several  unreconstructed  rebels, 
though  the  bloody  shirt  was  then  happily  passing 
as  an  issue  in  politics,  she  had  become  intensely 
Southern  in  her  sympathies.  She  bemoaned  the 
lost  cause  as  bitterly  as  a  widow  of  a  Confederate 
brigadier;  she  longed  for  a  return  of  the  golden 
days  of  Southern  chivalry,  and  she  yearned  inef- 
fably as  she  pictured  herself  on  some  old  Virginia 
plantation  attended  by  a  retinue  of  black  slaves 
whom  she  would  have  patronized  so  graciously  and 
kept  so  busy. 

Each  morning  she  bought  a  huge  bunch  of  vio- 
lets from  an  old  white-headed  negro,  in  order  to 
hear  his  "Lawd  bless  you.  Missy!"  It  seemed  to 
put  her  in  touch  with  the  days  she  never  had 
known,  and  never  could  know. 

She  importuned  her  mother,  too,  for  details  of 
her  ancestry,  a  subject  in  which  she  had  never 
displayed  an  interest  before,  and,  though  her 
mother  pleaded  headache,  she  was  at  last  enabled 
to  recall  and  body  forth,  though  vaguely,  a  long 
dead  grandmother  whom  tradition  pictured  as  a 
Virginia  lady,  an  F.  F.  V.,  in  fact. 

And  then  Dade's  English  accent  became  a  South- 
ern dialect,  and  it  was  with  a  delight  that  had  its 
own  regret,  that  she  heard  some  one  in  the  hotel 
parlor  ask  her  one  evening  what  part  of  the  South 
she  came  from.  An  experienced  ear  would  have 
detected  Dade's  little  deception  through  its  in- 
ability to  localize  her  dialect,  for  if  she  had  heard 
a  Virginian  speak,  she  straightway  spoke  like  a 
Virginian,  if  a  Kentuckian,  like  a  Kentuckian,  if  a 


The   Final   Returns  397 

Georgian,  then  like  a  Georgian,  and  the  result  was 
that  she  mimicked  all  and  mastered  the  tongue  of 
none. 

Yet  her  honesty  compelled  her  to  disclaim 
Southern  birth,  though  she  qualified  her  denial  and 
regained  the  place  she  had  momentarily  lost  in  the 
estimation  of  her  interlocutor  by  telling  him  that 
her  family,  or  part  of  them,  had  come  from  Vir- 
ginia. Those  evenings  in  the  hotel  parlor  were  un- 
satisfying, however,  and  she  tired  of  the  limits  its 
walls  set  to  her  social  evolutions. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  a  joy  that  lent  a  height- 
ened color  to  her  face,  and  showed  her  white  teeth 
in  a  genuine  smile  of  welcome,  that  she  saw  ap- 
proaching her  one  evening  across  the  dining-room 
a  young  man  whose  stride  and  carriage  marked 
him  for  an  officer  in  the  regular  army.  His  waist 
was  as  slender  and  his  body  as  correctly  bent  as 
when  he  had  been  a  shavetail  just  out  of  West 
Point,  though  that  he  had  seen  some  sort  of  ser- 
vice was  shown  by  his  face,  burned  to  an  Apache 
bronze  by  the  sun  of  New  Mexico. 

He  wore  his  civilian  clothes,  somewhat  old  in 
style,  with  the  unaccustomed  air  that  sits  on  the 
army  officer  when  he  is  out  of  uniform.  Dade  did 
not  restrain  the  look  of  pleasure  that  comes  to  any 
girl's  eyes  at  the  sight  of  a  soldier,  especially  a 
soldier  with  whom  she  may  claim  acquaintance, 
and  as  his  friendly  face  broke  into  smiles,  she  said : 

"Why,  Mistuh  Beck,  who  would  have  thought 
of  meeting  yo'  all  heah !  Ah  thought  yo'  weh  aout 
fighting  Indians  somewheah." 


398  The  i3th   District 

"rm  stationed  here  now,"  the  young  heutenant 
explained,  and  then:  "The  world  is  very  small!" 
he  marveled,  making  that  trite  remark  with  the 
self-evident  pleasure  that  showed  he  considered  it 
original.  "May  I?"  He  laid  a  hand  tentatively 
on  the  back  of  a  chair  at  her  table,  and  bowed  low 
in  his  pantomime  of  asking  if  he  might  sit  with 
her. 

"Ce'tainly,"  she  said. 

"And  Mrs.  Emerson  is  well?" 

"She  takes  heh  meals  in  heh  room.  We  ah  only 
waiting  heah  fo'  heh  to  recovah  sufificiently  to 
unde'take  the  journey  aout  to  Illinois." 

They  were  so  much  together  after  that  that  the 
ladies  of  the  hotel,  who  could  not  have  known  that 
the  young  people  had  become  acquainted  long  ago 
in  St,  Louis,  reveled  in  a  new  subject  for  gossip 
and  pitied  the  poor  woman  lying  ill  in  her  room 
and  neglected  by  a  daughter  who  spent  her  time 
flirting  with  an  army  officer.  Dade,  by  some  spir- 
itual divination,  apprehended  all  they  were  saying, 
and  took  a  delight  of  her  own  in  shocking  them. 
So  the  flirtation  raged  furiously,  and  Dade,  by 
delicate  pathological  suggestions,  developed  her 
mother's  present  indisposition  into  the  disease  that 
was  her  Washington  doctor's  specialty. 

Beck  and  Dade  had  gone  to  the  Capitol  one  day, 
and,  when  Dade  expressed  a  wish  to  see  how  the 
laws  were  made,  had  gone  into  the  gallery  of  the 
House.  Below  them  the  members  were  lolling  in 
their  seats,  their  feet  on  their  desks,  reading  news- 
papers, yawning  or  chatting,  while  the  business  of 


The   Final    Returns  399 

the  nation,  or  of  the  party  then  in  power  in  the 
nation,  was  being  Hstlessly  transacted. 

The  Speaker,  sitting  in  his  solemn  chair,  looked 
small  in  the  distance,  the  clerks  below  him  bowed 
over  their  work.  Now  and  then  the  Speaker's  voice 
could  be  heard,  now  and  then  the  sharp  fall  of  the 
gavel  startled  the  common  drone  of  voices.  Some 
member  far  across  the  House,  beyond  the  littered 
sea  of  desks,  was  speaking.  His  voice  came  to 
them  scarcely  at  all.  He  held  a  bundle  of  notes  in 
one  trembling  hand,  with  the  other  he  now  and  then 
pushed  his  spectacles  up  on  his  sweating  nose. 

A  cup  of  water  stood  on  his  desk,  and  he  drank 
from  it  frequently  in  the  agony  of  getting  through 
the  ordeal  that  was  necessary  to  supply  the  voters 
in  his  far-away  Ohio  district  with  copies  of  that 
speech.  By  the  time  it  got  into  the  Congressional 
Record,  it  would  be  well  parenthesized  with  ap- 
plause, and  thus  paint  for  his  constituents  a  scene 
of  a  decorous,  black-coated  House,  hanging  rapt 
upon  his  words,  and  breaking  occasionally  into 
cheers  that  could  not  be  controlled.  The  members 
lolled  and  read,  and  all  about  this  speaker  seats 
were  empty,  standing  there  in  wooden  patience  as 
if  waiting  for  him  to  end.  At  last  the  Speaker  of 
the  House  turned  from  the  man  to  whom  he  had 
been  whispering,  and  his  gavel  fell. 

"The  gentleman's  time  has  expired,"  he  said. 

The  Ohioan  stopped,  and  when  he  asked  leave 
to  extend  his  remarks  in  the  Record,  it  was  granted 
with  the  only  enthusiasm  his  effort  had  produced. 


400  The  1 3  th   District 

"It's  stupid,"  said  Dade,  turning  to  her  lieu- 
tenant.    "Let's  go  ovah  to  the  Senate." 

"It's  worse  there,"  Beck  answered.  "This  seems 
to  be  an  unexciting  day." 

"What  ah  they  talking  abaout?" 

"Goodness  knows,  I  don't." 

"Do  they?" 

"Hardly.  But — wait  a  minute!"  The  soldier 
leaned  over  the  railing.  A  laugh  had  rung  below 
him.  Sharp  words  had  been  spoken.  A  question 
had  been  flung  across  the  House.  On  both  sides, 
Republican  and  Democratic,  members  had  sprung 
to  their  feet.  The  Speaker  had  arisen,  and  stood 
with  his  gavel  alertly  poised.  There  were  several 
nervous  cries  of, 

"Mr.  Speaker!    Mr.  Speaker!" 

Beck  saw  one  member  who  had  arisen  with  the 
rest,  and  who  now  stood  with  one  hand  raised,  his 
finger  leveled  at  the  speaker. 

"Mr.  Speaker,"  said  the  member  confidently. 

The  Speaker  nodded  in  his  direction. 

"The  gentleman  from  Illinois,"  he  said. 

The  member  began  to  speak,  talking  in  a  low 
tone  for  several  moments.  Something  he  said  pro- 
voked a  laugh  around  him.  Then  the  House  was 
still.  He  was  a  tall  man,  and  his  long  black  coat 
hung  from  heavy  shoulders.  As  he  warmed  to 
his  subject,  and  his  coat  tails  swung  away  from 
his  loins,  they  revealed  a  protuberant  abdomen; 
as  he  warmed  still  more,  the  perspiration  rolled 
down  his  cheeks  and  on  to  the  neck  that  lay  in  folds 
of  fat  over  his  rapidly  softening  collar.     His  voice 


The   Final    Returns  401 

increased  in  volume.  He  became  excited,  he  turned 
around  in  a  vehement  outbreak,  to  address  directly- 
some  member  who,  with  head  bent  respectfully  to 
the  fictions  of  parliamentary  etiquette,  had  crept 
in  creaking  boots  to  a  desk  near  the  speaker,  and 
there  he  now  sat,  a  palm  nursing  his  deaf  ear.  The 
orator  turned  yet  more  directly  about,  and — 

"Why!"  Dade  cried,  "that's  Jerry  Gahwood! 
He's  ouah  congressman !" 

She  craned  her  pretty  chin  forward,  and  leaned 
her  elbows  on  the  wide  marble  rail  to  hear  the 
better. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  Beck  asked. 

"Why,  he's  ouah  congressman !  He  mah'ied 
Emily  Ha'kness — don't  yo'  remembuh?  The  gyrl 
who  was  with  me  that  wintuh  at  the  Van  Stohn's 
in  St.  Louis?" 

"Oh !"  said  Beck. 

She  turned  in  the  more  immediate  personal  in- 
terest his  tone  had  awakened  in  her. 

"Do  yo'  know  him?"  she  asked. 

"I?    No,  not  exactly." 

Garwood's  voice  was  ringing  loud  and  clear. 
Members  came  in  from  the  lobby,  from  the  cloak 
rooms,  from  the  committee  rooms.  Men  gathered 
in  the  seats  near  Garwood  to  hear  him  the  better. 
Now  and  then  there  was  the  sharp  rattle  of  clapping 
hands. 

Dade's  eyes  were  glowing. 

"Isn't  he  fahn  ?"  she  said.  "He's  handsome,  too. 
Ah  heahd  him  make  his  great  speech  the  night 
befo'  he  was  elected — yo'  heahd  of  it,  didn't  yo'?" 


402  The  13  th  District 

Beck  only  smiled.  She  turned  again  to  listen, 
but  her  attention  was  not  steadfast.  Beck  had 
hardly  been  Hstening  at  all. 

"Don't  yo'  think  him  fahn?"  she  inquired. 

"He  is  really  a  good  speaker,"  the  lieutenant  ad- 
mitted. Dade  looked  at  him,  fixing  her  brown 
eyes  steadily  in  his  blue  ones. 

"What  do  yo'  all  know  abaout  him?"  she  asked 
suddenly. 

"Why  do  you  ask?"  he  parried. 

"Yo'  speak  so  strangely — yo'  ah  so  queah  abaout 
him." 

"Am  I?  I  know  nothing.  I  have  been  told  that 
he  came  here  two  or  three  years  ago  with  extraor- 
dinary prospects — " 

"And  he  has  not — justifahd  or  fulfilled  them?" 

"That's  about  it." 

"Well,  if  that's  all!"  Dade  said  loyally,  tossing 
her  head,  and  then  she  turned  once  more  to  watch 
Garwood. 

His  speech  was  brief.  He  finished  in  a  fine  burst 
of  eloquence,  with  a  hand  uplifted,  and  his  black 
locks  shaking,  and  then  sat  down,  amid  a  volley  of 
applause,  taking  the  hands  of  those  who  pressed 
about  him,  and  smiling  at  each  congratulatory 
word,  though  disparagingly,  as  if  his  achievement 
had  been  a  small  thing  for  him. 

"Ah  must  meet  him!"  Dade  announced,  suddenly 
arising.  "We'll  go.  Yo'  must  send  in  yo'  cahd. 
Can  yo'?    Will  they  let  yo'?" 

"Yes,"  the  lieutenant  hesitated,  "but — " 

"But  what?"     Dade  stood  at  her  full  height. 


The   Final    Returns  403 

"I  think  you'd  rather  not  see  him — here." 

"Nonsense!"  She  stamped  her  foot  petulantly, 
and  her  eyes  flashed  dangerously.  "Ah  mean  to 
take  him  to  task  fo'  not  calling  on  mamma  and 
me.    Ah  've  known  him  all  my  life !" 

The  officer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  felt  that 
he  had  already  said  too  much,  more,  certainly,  than 
was  prudent  for  an  officer  in  the  army,  where  feu- 
dal notions  of  propriety  still  exist. 

Garwood  came  out  of  the  House  in  response  to 
the  lieutenant's  card.  The  air  of  serious  and  of- 
ficial demeanor  with  which  he  had  prepared  to  lis- 
ten to  importunities  about  some  of  the  army's  con- 
stant appropriation  bills  or  reorganization  bills, 
relaxed  into  one  of  surprise  and  friendliness  when 
he  saw  Dade  standing  by  the  side  of  the  young 
officer,  and  it  expanded  into  a  smile  of  much  in- 
sinuation as  he  bowed  low  and  took  the  girl's 
hand. 

"I'm  delighted,  I'm  sure,"  he  said. 

She  presented  the  lieutenant,  and  the  men  bowed. 

"I've  met  Lieutenant  Beck  before,"  Garwood 
said.  "Glad  to  meet  him  again — always  glad  to 
meet  the  officers  of  our  little  army,  aren't  we,  Miss 
Dade?" 

He  was  red  and  perspiring,  and  stretched  his 
neck  now  and  then,  that  he  might  press  his  hand- 
kerchief below  his  collar. 

"We  have  been  listening  to  yo'  speech,  Mistuh 
Gahwood,"  Dade  said.  "Ah  hadn't  heahd  yo'  speak 
since  that  night  befo'  the  election.  Do  yo'  remem- 
buh?" 


404  The  i3th  District 

"Oh,    yes,"    the    congressman    repHed,    and    he 
laughed.    "That  seems  years  ago,  doesn't  it?" 
"Not  to  me,"  she  corrected  him. 
Garwood  bowed,  intensely. 

"Pardon  me,  Miss  Dade,  you  are  the  only  one 
who  hasn't  aged  since  then." 

Garwood  had  drawn  a  cigarette  from  his  pocket, 
and  as  they  strolled  out  into  the  rotunda,  he  offered 
the  case  to  Beck. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Beck. 
Garwood  continued  pinching  the  cigarette. 
"Emil — Mrs.  Gahwood  is  not  with  yo',  is  she?" 
"No,  poor  girl,"  said  Garwood.    "She  stayed  at 
home  this  winter.     It  has  been  lonely  for  me,  too, 
without  her.    I  had  hoped  to  have  her  with  me,  but 
she  is  not  well — and  then  her  father's  death  you 
know — " 

Garwood  allowed  the  sentence  to  complete  in  the 
girl's  mind  its  own  impression  of  the  lonely  wife 
left  at  home. 

"She  must  be  lonesome,"  Dade  said. 
"Yes — think  of  having  to  spend  a  winter  in  that 
beastly  little  place!"  Garwood  said,  and  then  he 
hastened  to  add  with  an  apologetic  smile:  "We 
wouldn't  talk  that  way  in  Grand  Prairie,  Lieu- 
tenant;   would  we,  Miss  Dade?" 

The  two  men  walked  with  her  between  them,  and 
Garwood  walked  close  to  the  girl.  His  eyes  took 
in  her  fresh  face,  glowing  under  the  dotted  veil, 
and  her  athletic  figure,  which  she  carried  as  erectly 
as  the  soldier  by  her  side  did  his. 

".We  were  going  over  into  the  Senate." 


The   Final    Returns  405 

"Ah?"  Garwood  responded.  "I'm  headed  in  that 
general  direction,  not  to  hear  the  old  men  certainly, 
but  down  to  the  restaurant.  This  business  of  sav- 
ing the  nation  twice  a  day  is  exhausting.  Perhaps 
you'd—" 

"No,  thank  yo',"  said  Dade,  withdrawing  herself 
subtly. 

"I  shall  do  myself  the  honor  of  calling  upon  you. 
Miss  Dade,"  Garwood  said. 

She  looked  at  him.     Her  eyes  were  cold. 

"Mothuh  will  be  glad  to  see  yo',  no  doubt,"  she 
answered,  and  then  she  bowed. 

Garwood  stood  looking  after  her,  watching  the 
delicate  play  of  the  muscles  of  her  back  as  she 
walked.  Then  he  placed  the  cigarette  between  his 
lips,  and  started  for  the  elevators. 

"He's  grown  fat !"  Dade  was  saying  to  the  army 
officer.    "He'shoh'id!    Po'  little  Emily!" 


Ill 


IT  had  been  a  long  and  lonesome  winter  for 
Emily,  shut  up  in  the  big  house  emptied  of  all 
save  its  memories.  She  was  still  in  mourning 
for  her  father,  and  the  conventionalities  of  a  society 
that  demands  steadfast  grief  in  others  prevented 
her  from  seeking  any  diversion,  even  if  she  had  had 
the  strength  or  the  inclination  to  do  so.  Her  only 
companion,  besides  the  servants,  was  her  child, 
now  in  his  third  year  and  developing  a  curiosity 
that  exhausted  the  little  vitahty  that  her  house- 
wifely duties  had  not  already  demanded. 

Mrs.  Garwood  found  time,  of  course,  to  "run  in," 
as  she  put  it,  every  day,  though  her  run  had  to 
prolong  itself  for  many  blocks,  and  she  watched 
Emily  with  a  motherly  solicitude.  But  it  was  Em- 
ily's heart  that  was  lonely;  she  brooded  constantly 
over  her  lengthened  separations  from  Jerome.  She 
had  borne  them  bravely  as  long  as  they  seemed  but 
necessary  postponements  of  the  life  she  had  wished 
to  lead,  but  now  it  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon 
her  that  there  was  a  spiritual  separation  between 
them,  growing  ever  wider  and  wider,  and  the 
thought  of  this  wore  away  day  by  day  faith  and 
hope,  and  left  her  sick  with  despair. 

For  this  her  mother-in-law  could  give  her  little 
consolation.  Not  that  she  lacked  sympathy  at 
heart,  but  the  tenderness  of  her  nature  could  only 
406 


The   Final    Returns  407 

express  itself  in  material  ways.  The  finer  qualities 
of  the  spirit's  yearnings  which,  in  the  case  of  a 
nature  like  Emily's,  became  real  necessities,  she 
could  not  appreciate.  If  at  times  she  was  haunted 
by  a  crude  intuition  of  Emily's  subjective  difficul- 
ties, she  had  not  the  power  to  analyze  them,  and 
if  she  had,  she  would  have  found  little  patience  with 
them. 

The  life  they  had  led  did  not  of  course  meet  the 
standards  of  her  own  conscience,  but  she  was  dis- 
posed to  blame  Emily  as  much  as,  if  not  more  than, 
she  did  Jerome,  and  being  a  rigid  old  woman,  who 
would  have  burned  at  the  stake  for  any  one  of  her 
little  elementary  principles,  she  would  now,  as  she 
had  done  so  many  times  before,  consistently  wag 
her  head  with  the  wise  disapproval  her  years  and 
experience  of  common  life  warranted  her  in  ex- 
pressing, and  say: 

"It  ain't  for  the  best,  it  ain't  for  the  best.  You're 
too  young  to  be  apart;  it  ain't  good  for  you,  an' 
it  ain't  good  for  Jerome.  Young  husban's  should 
be  kept  at  home,  should  be  kept  at  home." 

"But,  you  know,  mother,"  Emily  would  argue, 
"I  can't  keep  him  at  home,  and  I  can't  be  with  him 
there  in  Washington — now." 

And  her  head  drooped  over  the  white  garment 
she  was  fashioning. 

But  old  Mrs.  Garwood  inexorably  shook  her 
head. 

"It  won't  do,"  she  insisted,  "a.  wife's  place  is  by 
her  husband,  an'  I  s'pose  women  becomes  mothers 
in  Washington  same's  anywhere  else." 


4o8  The  13  th   District 

Emily  had  no  strength  for  discussion  then.  It 
was  all  at  one,  anyway,  with  the  monotony  of  her 
life. 

It  became,  too,  but  a  part  of  her  routine  to 
follow  political  developments  through  the  news- 
papers, trying  to  supply  the  omissions  in  Jerome's 
infrequent  letters  from  the  broad  columns  of  the 
Congressional  Record,  where,  for  the  benefit  of 
posterity,  the  national  politicians  keep  a  carefully 
revised  record  of  the  things  they  wish  they  had 
said. 

If  she  found  Jerome's  name,  she  read  eagerly, 
and  then,  dropping  the  paper  in  her  lap,  began 
once  more  as  in  the  past,  to  body  forth  in  imagina- 
tion the  whole  scene — ^Jerome  in  the  full  flush  of 
his  oratorical  excitement,  his  face  red,  his  eyes 
blazing,  his  brow  damp  with  perspiration,  his  black 
hair  tumbled  in  the  picturesque  way  she  knew,  his 
arm  uplifted,  perhaps  one  white  cuff  a  little  disar- 
ranged. 

And  then,  the  other  congressmen  crowding  into 
the  seats  about  him,  at  last  the  "long-continued 
applause,"  which  is  the  only  thing  never  ex- 
purgated from  that  daily  magazine  of  fiction.  In 
this  poor  way  she  tried  to  bear  herself  nearer  to 
him,  to  remain  by  him,  but  it  was  not  satisfying, 
and  many  times  after  such  hopeless  fancy,  she  wept 
in  despair,  and  hugged  her  boy  to  her  hungry 
breast,  finding  in  his  warm  little  body  the  only 
actual  and  substantial  comfort  her  life  now  knew. 

Emily  had  allowed  herself  to  beheve  that  serious 
opposition  to  Jerome's  renomination    had    disap- 


The   Final    Returns  409 

peared  after  his  victory  in  his  second  campaign, 
but  when  with  other  harbingers  of  spring  Sprague 
came  forth  in  his  perennial  candidacy,  and  an- 
nouncement was  made  that  with  the  sohd  delegation 
of  Moultrie  at  his  disposal  he  would  contest  with 
Garwood  for  the  nomination,  she  realized  with  a 
certain  sickening  at  her  heart  that  the  same  old 
trial  was  upon  them  once  more. 

A  few  days  later  she  read  that  Judge  Bailey  of 
Mason — now  Speaker  of  the  House  at  Springfield 
— was  also  an  avowed  candidate  for  Congress,  and 
she  tried  to  convince  herself  that  Jerome's  chances 
were  thereby  favored  because  of  the  consequent 
division  of  the  forces  against  him,  though,  there 
were  disquieting  articles  in  the  Advertiser  that 
would  not  let  her  conviction  rest. 

The  Advertiser,  as  is  customary  with  the  opposi- 
tion organ  in  a  man's  own  town,  exhibited  a  mean- 
ness in  its  treatment  of  Garwood  to  which  it  would 
not  have  descended  in  any  cause  less  sacred  than 
that  of  party-ism,  and  it  now  began  to  speak  of 
Bailey  in  fulsome  praise  as  if  he  were  the  savior  of 
his  times,  though  all  its  readers  knew,  and  espe- 
cially did  Emily  know,  for  she,  doubtless,  alone  of 
all  those  readers,  looked  so  far  ahead,  that  if  Bailey 
were  successful  before  the  convention,  he  would, 
when  the  campaign  came  on,  get  all  the  abuse  her 
husband  had  been  receiving. 

But  Emily  had  learned  that  editors,  though  they 
appeared  at  least  ordinarily  honorable  in  other 
ways,  could  become  mendacious  when  they  took 
up  political  questions;    she  had  often  wondered 


410  The  13th   District 

why  it  was  that,  simply  because  they  happened  to 
own  newspapers  to  print  them  in,  they  could  de- 
liberately write  and  publish  lies  they  would  have 
scorned  to  use  in  discussing  men  in  any  of  their 
relations  other  than  political,  and,  while  she  could 
find  no  explanation  except  that  partisanship  incul- 
cates hypocrisy,  she  tried  to  be  practical  and  not 
credit  anything  she  read  in  the  newspapers,  espe- 
cially if  it  were  disagreeable, 

Pusey  had  loyally  begun  the  campaign  for  Gar- 
wood's reelection  by  writing  daily  editorials  in  his 
praise,  and  these,  printed  in  the  Citizen,  which  the 
postmaster  continued  to  edit,  gave  Emily  a  welcome 
antidote  for  the  Advertiser's  venom.  Pusey  pub- 
lished all  of  Garwood's  speeches  in  full,  and  the 
Advertiser,  with  the  relish  of  one  who  discloses 
state  secrets,  described  the  little  postmaster  as  dark- 
ly setting  up  the  pins  for  a  county  convention  which 
should  select  a  delegation  to  the  congressional  con- 
vention instructed  to  use  all  honorable  means  to 
bring  about  the  renomination  of  Jerome  B.  Gar- 
wood. 

The  Advertiser's  editor,  with  a  wit  that  some- 
times illumined  the  recesses  of  his  mind,  printed 
the  word  "honorable"  in  quotation  marks.  This 
account  of  Pusey's  secret  doings  was  varied  at 
times  by  a  description  of  the  conferences  that  were 
nightly  held  in  the  back  room  of  the  post-office. 
The  Advertiser  pretended  to  lay  bare  all  the  rami- 
fications of  the  little  man's  designs,  and  as  if  its 
duty  lay  in  the  direction  of  its  joy,  did  all  it  could 


The   Final    Returns  411 

to  confound  his  politics  and  frustrate  his  knavish 
tricks. 

But  amid  all  this  confusion,  Emily  was  sure  of 
one  thing,  that  there  was  another  contest,  with  all 
its  nervous  strain,  before  her;  that  the  months  to 
come,  the  beautiful  months  of  the  spring  and  sum- 
mer she  had  longed  for  as  ardently  as  an  invalid 
longs  for  the  days  when  he  can  be  wheeled  out  into 
the  sun,  would  bring  more  abuse  and  recrimination, 
more  hatred  and  strife,  and  she  had  grown  so  weary 
of  it  all.  If  Jerome  could  have  become  a  candidate 
for  some  other  office  it  would  at  least  relieve  the 
monotony,  but  this  everlasting  repetition  of  the 
unchanging  sordid  struggle  to  stay  in  Congress — 
she  wished  that  he  would  leave  politics  altogether; 
she  almost  wished  in  her  bitterness,  that  he  would 
be  defeated,  if  it  would  bring  him  home,  and  make 
him  himself  once  more. 


IV 


DADE  had  provisionally  accepted  Beck's  in- 
vitation to  the  Army  and  Navy  ball,  but  after 
Mrs.  Emerson  had  showed  her  endurance  in 
an  Easter  service  at  one  of  the  fashionable 
churches,  there  was  no  longer  doubt  that  she 
would  postpone  her  return  to  Illinois  and  the  re- 
sumption of  Doctor  Larkin's  treatment  until  that 
great  event  should  have  passed  into  history.  As 
the  night  of  the  ball  drew  near.  Beck  was  in  a 
flutter  almost  feminine,  and  Dade's  preparations 
went  forward  in  such  excitement  that  the  old  lady 
herself  finally  awakened  an  interest  and  determined 
to  accompany  Dade  as  chaperon. 

Now  that  the  night  had  come,  she  showed  no 
regret  for  her  decision,  for,  with  a  robust  floridity 
that  may  have  been  but  the  final  flowering  of  her 
carefully  nurtured  ailments,  she  sat  and  fanned  her- 
self all  the  evening,  basking  in  the  smiles  of  the 
young  oflficers  Beck  brought  up  in  reliefs  to  keep 
her  from  growing  weary  and  impatient.  These 
warlike  youths  in  the  esprit  de  corps  that  had  been 
hazed  into  them  at  the  national  nursery  heroically 
stood  at  their  posts,  reminded,  whenever  they 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  proud  girl  in  the  fine  state 
of  her  black  chiffon  gown,  whirling  by  with  their 
brother  officer,  that  the  honor  of  the  service  was 
being  upheld. 

412 


The   Final   Returns  413 

"They  are  charming,  these  young  officers  of  our 
army!"  the  old  lady  whispered  to  Dade  as  they 
were  going  out  to  supper.  "So  much  more  sincere 
than  foreign  officers,  such  gentlemen!" 

"Of  co'se,"  Dade  replied,  but  more  for  Beck's 
benefit  than  for  her  mother's,  "they  ah  gentlemen 
bah  Act  of  Congress." 

The  old  lady  fed  recklessly  on  the  salads  and 
ices,  and  Dade  foresaw  the  loud  alarums  that 
would  appal,  the  nights  for  a  week  afterwards,  but 
Beck  observed  her  gastronomic  exploits  with  satis- 
faction, for  it  all  meant  time  to  him.  Dade  had 
limited  him  to  four  dances,  and  in  the  wide,  wide 
intervals  between  them,  he  had  moped  in  the  smok- 
ing room,  just  as  if  he  were  the  love-sick  hero  of  a 
novel.  But  now  he  pressed  his  suit  by  urging 
more  dishes  on  the  mother,  and  she  ate  gaily  and 
carelessly  on,  and  drank  enough  coflfee  to  insure 
insomnia  for  the  whole  summer.  And  then  after 
supper,  Dade  went  off  with  a  mere  civilian,  and 
left  Beck  and  her  mother  to  watch  the  brilliant 
stream  of  uniforms  flow  by. 

It  was  the  male,  who  in  a  reversion  to  the  bar- 
baric type,  made  a  display  of  toilets  that  night,  and 
not  the  female.  There  were  uniforms  everywhere. 
The  embowered  Marine  Band,  itself  cutting  no 
mean  figure  in  its  white  breeches  and  scarlet  coats, 
played  the  tunes  that  were  popular  that  spring, 
while  the  proud  and  happy  men  moved  by  in  glit- 
tering splendor — navy  officers,  with  their  gold- 
braided  dress  coats  and  low  waistcoats;  army  offi- 
cers, in  the  white  stripes  of  the  infantry,  the  yel- 


414  The  13  th  District 

low  of  the  cavalry,  or  the  red  of  the  artillery;  the 
members  of  some  local  company  of  rifles  in  their 
cadet  gray  and  pipe-clayed  cross-belts,  now  and 
then  some  foreign  officer  in  the  pride  of  his  own 
pulchritude,  and  the  happy  consciousness  that  he 
was  serving  nobly  in  that  hour  because  his  uniform 
marked  him  out  even  in  all  that  distinction  of  gold- 
mounted  clothes. 

The  members  of  the  diplomatic  corps,  too,  had 
come  with  their  ribbons  and  stars,  to  give  the  final 
touch  of  splendor;  even  the  Japanese  and  Chinese 
ministers  with  their  silks  and  fans  were  there, 
gazing  calmly  on  from  the  far  misty  distance  of 
their  oriental  lives.  There  were,  to  be  sure,  some 
white-headed  old  infantry  captains  who  had  not  a 
sign  of  gold  cord  on  their  breasts,  but  they  served 
to  show  how  unequally  the  real  rewards  of  military 
service  are  apportioned. 

Dade  could  see  Beck,  striding  here  and  there 
over  the  ball  room  floor,  trampling  the  trains  of 
gowns,  with  muttered  apologies  as  angry  as  the 
vengeful  looks  the  ladies  flung  at  him,  but  she  did 
not  cast  one  glance  in  his  direction  to  help  him  in 
his  quest.  Rather,  with  her  head  inclined  indo- 
lently, her  long  arms,  in  their  black  mousquetaire 
gloves,  stretched  straight  to  her  knees,  her  fingers 
knit  together,  she  sat  and  talked  to  the  black- 
coated  civilian,  who,  despite  the  eclipse  into  which 
he  and  all  his  unnoticed  kind  were  thrown  by  the 
blaze  of  uniforms  that  night,  had  manfully  striven 
to  shine  in  his  own  proper  luster. 


The   Final   Returns  415 

Yet  from  the  corner  of  her  dark  eye,  she  followed 
Beck's  frantic  evolutions  as  he  dashed  in  and  out 
among  the  promenading  couples,  assuring  herself 
again  that  she  had  never  known  how  handsome 
the  young  soldier  was  until  she  beheld  him  that 
night  for  the  first  time  in  uniform.  She  had  always 
longed  to  see  him  armed  and  equipped,  and  had 
frankly  told  him  so,  not  at  all  to  his  discomfort  or 
displeasure,  but  she  pictured  him  at  such  times  as 
a  kind  of  animated  Remington  figure  in  cavalry 
boots  and  spurs,  a  heavy  saber  hooked  up  at  his 
belt,  and  a  six-shooter  in  its  holster  swinging  ready 
to  his  right  hand;  with  gauntlets,  too,  a  gray  cam- 
paign hat  to  shade  his  eyes,  and  a  polka-dotted 
handkerchief  knotted  at  his  sun-burned  throat. 
Then,  in  the  violet  haze  of  the  western  prairies, 
a  body  of  hardened  troopers  standing  by,  some 
picketed  horses,  a  grizzled  officer  with  a  field  glass^ 
and  perhaps  some  Indians  on  their  ponies  impu- 
dently galloping  in  far-off  taunting  circles,  had 
completed  the  picture  her  young  imagination  had 
made  of  him. 

But  he  had  presented  himself  before  her  that 
evening  as  the  apotheosis  of  the  full-dress  uniform, 
with  his  cavalry  cape  over  his  shoulders — though 
it  had  one  corner  thrown  back  to  give  freedom  to 
his  right  arm,  and  possibly  to  show  its  own  yel- 
low lining — and  his  helmet  with  its  long  yellow 
horse-hair  plume  hanging  to  his  shoulders,  and 
adding  at  least  a  cubit  to  his  stature,  after  the  cubit 
of  a  man.    When  they  arrived  at  the  armory,  he 


4i6  The  13th   District 

had  doffed  the  helmet  and  the  cape,  but  it  was 
only  to  display  himself  in  the  more  gorgeous  mag- 
nificence of  his  helmet  cord,  arranged  on  his  breast 
with  an  intricacy  that  would  have  bewildered  a 
lady's  maid,  and  his  heavier  aiguillettes,  which  his 
detail  as  aide-de-camp  now  entitled  him  to  wear, 
looped  from  his  right  shoulder. 

His  shoulder  knots  gave  him  an  effect  of  greater 
broadness,  and  when  he  walked  his  long  saber 
smote  militantly  against  the  wide  yellow  stripe  that 
ran  down  his  leg.  His  face,  tanned  to  a  chronic 
brown  by  the  suns  of  the  Southwest,  where  he  had 
been  chasing  Apaches  for  three  years,  was  red  to- 
night with  the  heat  and  the  excitement  of  this 
social  expression  of  the  civilization  he  was  so  glad 
to  get  back  to,  and  his  yellow  hair,  cropped  close 
in  the  military  style,  was  twisting  tightly  at  his 
brow  into  the  curls  that  he  would  have  cultivated 
had  he  been  trained  to  some  practical  occupation. 

The  eclipsed  civilian  was  glad  enough  when  the 
band  struck  up  a  waltz,  and  rescued  him  from 
Dade's  comparative  studies  of  uniforms,  for  if  he 
did  not  quite  recover  his  individuality  with  his 
new  partner,  he  could  at  least  forget  it  in  the  ver- 
tiginous mazes  of  the  dance. 

Dade,  left  alone,  began  to  long  for  Beck's  com- 
ing to  save  her  from  the  ignominy  of  a  wallflower, 
and,  under  the  stress  of  this  apprehension,  she  held 
herself  more  stiffly  with  the  intention  of  acquiring 
thereby  a  greater  visibility,  and  of  expressing  that 
reproach  she  meant  him  to  feel  in  the  moment 


The   Final   Returns  417 

when  he  should  discover  her  thus  deserted.  She 
could  see  him  still  dashing  here  and  there  on  the 
outlook  for  her. 

He  had  left  the  middle  of  the  floor  where  the 
gyrating  dancers  made  his  position  absurd  and 
even  dangerous,  and  now,  applying  the  tactics  of 
his  arm  of  the  service,  was  beating  up  the  walls 
of  the  room,  feeling  that  there  somewhere,  his 
scout  must  end.  When  he  saw  her  at  last,  his  per- 
spiring face  lit  up,  and  he  bore  down  upon  her  in 
triumph.  He  sank  into  the  chair  beside  her,  and, 
drawing  out  a  handkerchief,  began  to  pat  his  brow 
delicately  with  it,  though  he  would  have  liked  to 
give  his  hot  face  a  good  scrubbing. 

"Have  yo'  all  been  having  a  good  tahm?" 
drawled  Dade,  with  her  eyes  far  away  to  where 
the  Chinese  minister  was  cross-examining  some 
woman  on  the  subject  of  her  age  and  her  maiden 
name. 

"No,"  Beck  said,  bluntly. 

"Ah  should  think  yo'  would,"  Dade  replied, 
coldly. 

Beck  looked  at  her  in  alarm. 

"Why?"  he  ventured. 

"Yo'  seemed  to  have  difficulty  in  teahing  yo'self 
away." 

Beck's  alarm  became  positive. 

"I  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere,"  he 
said  in  earnest  defense. 

"And  then,"  she  continued,  as  if  to  eliminate 
herself  from  consideration  as  quickly  as  possible, 
"ah  yo'  not  in  unifohm?" 


4i8  The  13th   District 

She  turned  toward  him,  and  inclining  her  head 
over  her  white  shoulder,,  looked  at  him  with  an 
eye  to  sartorial  effects. 

"If  you  only  knew  how  hot  this  dress  uniform 
is!"  He  scoured  his  whole  visage  with  his  hand- 
kerchief, and  angrily  pulled  at  the  collar  that  was 
binding  his  neck. 

"But  just  think  how  remahkably  well  yo'  all 
look  in  it,"  she  said,  her  lips  parting  in  a  mocking 
smile. 

"Don't,  please,"  he  said,  quite  seriously.  "Do 
you  think  we  live  only  for  uniforms?" 

"Don't  yo'?"  she  asked.  "Look  at  that  red  com- 
modo'e  theah.  He  comes  into  the  hotel  pahlo' 
every  night  buhsting  in  that  unifohm — he  wouldn't 
give  it  up  fo'  the  wo'ld." 

Beck  smiled  at  the  fat  old  sailor  who  was  wheel- 
ing gravely  around. 

"If  it  weh  not  fo'  the  unifohms  we  all  would  have 
no  ahmy  at  all,"  Dade  persisted ;  "it  is  the  unifohm 
that  keeps  the  institution  of  milita'ism  alive." 

"You  seem  to  be  thinking  deeply  to-night,"  Beck 
replied. 

"Ah  nevah  had  such  a  good  oppo'tunity  befo'  fo' 
studying  the  vanity  of  man." 

"If  you  could  see  us  in  the  field,  you  wouldn't 
think  so,"  Beck  said,  and  he  managed  to  put  the 
words  in  the  tone  of  one  who  had  suffered  for  a 
great  cause. 

Dade  glanced  at  him.  She  had  a  glimpse  of  her 
Remington  picture  again.     His  tone  had  touched 


The   Final   Returns  419 

her.  She  recalled  all  she  had  read  of  the  hard- 
ships of  soldiers'  lives,  and  she  softened. 

"Ah  would  lahk  to  see  yo'  all  theah,"  she  con- 
fessed. 

"Would  you?"  He  spoke  eagerly,  leaning  to- 
ward her,  gathering  his  saber  into  his  lap.  "You 
shall."  His  cheek  flushed  red  under  his  brown 
skin.  He  cast  a  glance  about  the  armory,  striving 
to  hide  its  bare  walls  under  the  flags  of  all  nations 
that  had  been  draped  there.  The  green  plants 
standing  stolidly  in  their  tubs  offered  no  place  for 
a  tete-a-tete. 

She  cast  one  glance  his  way,  and  then  dropped 
her  eyes. 

"Yo'  swo'd  theah,  fo'  instance,  is  an  emblem  of 
vanity,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  in  a  final  effort  to 
regain  her  lost  note  of  banter,  "why  do  yo'  weah 
it  in  a  ball  room?  Ah  yo'  in  dangeh?  No,  yo' 
me'ely  wish  to  show  that  yo'  can  handle  it  skil- 
fully in  a  dance — which  yo'  can't — — "  And  she 
thrust  a  hand  into  a  rent  in  her  overskirt,  and 
spread  it  over  her  palm  in  proof.  "And  those 
things,  what  do  yo'  call  them?  That  helmet  co'd, 
as  Leftenant  Wood  so  cahfully  explained  to  me, 
that  is  to  hold  yo'  helmet  on;  but  yo'  haven't  yo' 
helmet  on  now.  And  those  othah  things,  lak  pen- 
cils, that  knock  in  mah  eyes  in  dancing,  what  good 
ah  they?" 

She  touched  with  the  tip  of  her  finger  his  dang- 
ling aiguillettes.    Tlie  touch  thrilled  him. 

"Did  you  hear  me?"  he  went  on.  All  her  mock- 
ery had  not  been  heard.    She  knew  it  had  not  been 


420  The  13  th  District 

heard,  and  she  tried  to  say  more,  but  her  mind 
would  not  work;  she  caught  her  breath.  They 
were  alone  on  that  side  of  the  great  hall.  He 
leaned  closer. 

"Did  you  hear  me?"  he  went  on.  "You  shall 
see  me  so  if  you  will.  I'll  take  you  there — will  you 
go?" 

She  laughed  softly. 

"It  would  be  a  treat,  wouldn't  it,"  she  said,  "to 
see  yo'  on  yo'  native  heath?" 

His  face  remained  serious.     His  jaw  set. 

"Dade,"  he  said,  and  she  flushed  crimson,  "it's 
no  use — I  can't  say  it  right — only— I  love  you, 
that's  all." 

She  hung  her  head. 

"Do  you  hear,  darling?"  he  continued,  bending 
nearer.  "Do  you  hear?  You  must  excuse  the 
bluntness  of  a  soldier — I  love  you,  that's  all  there  is 
to  it." 

He  clutched  the  scabbard  of  his  saber  in  his 
nervousness.  Her  hand  had  fallen  to  her  side, 
and  with  his  own  he  seized  it,  and  crushed  it  be- 
tween them. 

"Listen,"  he  said,  "I  love  you,  love  you,  love 
you!  Oh,  if  we  were  somewhere  else!  You  can't 
say  'No'  now;  you  must  not!  You  do  love  me, 
you  must  — listen,  do  you  hear? — you  must  love 
me!  If  we  were  elsewhere  I'd  take  you  in  my 
arms — I'll  do  it  anyway,  here  and  now — ^what  do  I 
care?    And  you  couldn't  stop  me!" 

He  leaned  impulsively  forward.  She  stirred,  and 
turned  her  face  half-frightened  toward  him. 


The    Final    Returns  421 

"Not  here!" 

"Tell  me,  then,  do  you  love  me?" 

Her  eyes  looked  full  in  his,  and  then,  without 
dropping  one  of  her  Western  r's,  she  said : 

"You  know,  Arthur." 

He  crushed  her  hand  until  she  winced  with  the 
pain. 


V 


EMILY  and  Dade  had  kept  up  a  correspon- 
dence that  gushed  from  their  pens  with  all 
the  olden  spontaneity  of  their  girlhood, 
though  in  the  latter  days  this  thin  black-gowned 
matron  who  paused  in  her  household  duties  to  sit 
down  to  epistolary  labors  found  it  an  effort  which 
caused  her  rueful  smiles  to  assume  a  character  that 
was  akin  to  her  ancient  self.  Dade  in  her  letters 
from  Washington  had  hinted  darkly  at  a  secret 
she  had  to  impart  when  they  were,  as  she  put  it, 
heart  to  heart  again,  though  her  constant  and  en- 
thusiastic celebration  of  Lieutenant  Beck  of  the 
cavalry  detracted  somewhat  from  the  mystery  she 
was  saving  for  Emily's  stupefaction. 

When  it  was  at  last  announced  to  her  that  the 
Emersons  were  about  to  start  for  Grand  Prairie, 
Emily  welcomed  the  news  with  joy,  and  fondly  ex- 
pected to  renew  in  Dade  that  blithe  girlhood  which, 
as  she  sadly  realized,  had  gone  from  her.  But 
when  Dade  appeared  one  morning  at  the  bottom 
of  the  broad  steps  that  led  to  the  veranda  of  Con- 
gressman Garwood's  place,  as  the  old  home  of  the 
Harknesses  so  soon  had  come  to  be  called,  and 
mounted  them  with  anything  but  continental  state- 
liness,  Emily,  standing  in  the  doorway  to  meet  her, 
saw  in  a  flash,  that  however  ardent  and  however 
422 


The   Final    Returns  423 

intimate  their  letters  may  have  been,  their  diverg- 
ing Hves  could  never  meet  again. 

To  Emily  the  recognition  was  prompter  than  to 
Dade,  to  whom,  indeed,  it  never  came  at  all. 
Though  she  had  roamed  all  over  the  world,  Dade 
had  not  grown  in  experience,  unless  a  cosmopo- 
lite's knowledge  of  the  conveniences  of  travel,  a 
guide-book  acquaintance  with  art  galleries,  and  a 
smattering  of  gossip  about,  if  not  of,  the  fashion- 
able courts  of  Europe  could  be  called  experience. 
She  still  looked  out  upon  the  world  with  the  wide 
eyes  of  her  girlhood;  while  Emily,  though  im- 
mured in  all  the  provincialism  of  her  little  prairie 
town,  had  known  the  daily  heart-ache  and  the 
sleepless  nights  in  which  the  soul  sounds  all  the 
deeps  of  life.  So  it  was  that  out  of  eyes  from  which 
the  scales  had  fallen  she  looked  upon  Dade's  glow- 
ing and  radiant  face  this  May  morning,  and  the 
smile  that  came  to  her  was  of  a  longing  sympathy 
with  the  youth  and  girlhood  that  stood  revealed 
before  her. 

Dade,  swinging  the  jacket  she  had  been  carrying 
on  her  arm,  caught  Emily  about  the  waist  and  led 
her  into  the  house  at  a  livelier  step  than  she 
had  known  for  many  a  day.  Emily  took  her  up- 
stairs, where  they  could  be  near  the  new  baby, 
who  was  taking  a  morning  nap,  and  once  In  the 
old  familiar  room  that  Dade  had  known  as  Emily's 
in  their  girlhood,  she  plumped  Emily  down  on  the 
box  couch,  then  plumped  herself  down  beside  her, 
and  when  the  vibration  of  the  springs  had  spent 
itself,  and  she  had  ceased  to  bounce  up  and  down, 


424  The  13th  District 

Dade  impetuously  turned,  and  fixing  her  eyes  on 
Emily  under  the  brim  of  the  mannish  alpine  hat 
she  wore,  she  seized  the  matron  by  both  shoulders 
and  said: 

"Em,  Ah'm  engaged!" 

"Again?"  smiled  Emily,  with  the  indulgence  of 
the  elder  woman  to  a  girl. 

"Again!"  cried  Dade,  repeating  Emily's  word, 
and  arching  her  brows.  She  released  her  hold  of 
Emily's  shoulders,  and  throwing  her  arms  behind 
her,  rested  on  them  like  two  props,  while  she  re- 
garded Emily  with  a  mimicry  of  reproach.  But 
her  black  eye-brows  twitched  disobediently  in  the 
mirth  that  was  turbulent  that  day  in  her  whole 
being, 

"Again!"  she  repeated,  trying  to  prolong  the 
pose.  "Yo'  speak  as  if  mah  husband  was  d'aid, 
and  Ah'd  been  mah'ied  the  second  tahm!" 

Emily  gave  a  little  distant  laugh. 

"I'm  glad,  dear,"  she  said. 

Dade  regarded  her  curiously,  and  then  instantly 
voiced  her  thought. 

"Yo'  all  talk  lak  some  kind  old  auntie!"  she  said. 
"Why,  gyrl,  yo'  ahn't  old's  Ah  am.  Mah  heaht's 
v/ohn  to  a  frazzle.  Ah've  been  engaged  befo',  oh, 
a  dozen  tahms.  Ah  reckon — mo'n  yo'  all  evah 
dreamed  of!" 

"A  dozen  times!"  exclaimed  Emily,  in  real 
amazement,  and  then  with  a  touch  of  the  spirit  of 
their  old  intimacy  she  said: 

"But  you  never  told  me,  Dade,  only  that  once!" 

"Co'se    not."    said    Dade;     "they    really    didn't 


The   Final    Returns  425 

count.  Ah  was  on  and  off  with  them  so  quick. 
Ah  wanted  to  wait  to  see  if — if — the'd  take  befo' 
writing  yo',  but  they  nevah  did,  only  the  one  with 
the  baron,  po'  ol'  soul!" 

"Did  that  one  take?"  asked  Emily,  with  a  lan- 
guid return  to  the  remoteness  her  own  experience 
had  drawn  her  to,  and  with  a  sigh,  also,  that  her 
heart  so  quickly  lost  the  perfume  of  the  youth  that 
a  moment  before  had  been  wafted  into  it. 

Dade  was  serious  an  instant. 

"Well,  yes,  Ah  thought  it  did,  but  yo'  know, 
Em,  those  Eu'opeans  ah  simply  im-possible,  that's 
all." 

"And  you  were  engaged  to  twelve  of  them!  I 
thought  the  chaperon  was  an  institution  in  Europe. 
Yours  couldn't  have  watched  you  very  carefully." 

"Oh,  they're  just  to  see  that  the  gyrls  dezv  mah'y 
some  one — that's  all — but " 

"You  escaped?" 

"Yes,  it's  different  with  an  Ame'ican  gyrl,  yo' 
know;  they  won't  be  watched,  and  Ah  escaped." 

Dade  had  raised  her  arms  to  her  head,  with  a 
graceful  preliminary  flourish  to  loosen  her  sleeves 
at  the  elbows,  and  was  withdrawing  the  pins  that 
fastened  her  hat.  Emily  noticed  that  the  pins 
were  all  headed  with  army  buttons,  with  the  "C" 
on  their  bright  little  shields  that  told  of  the  despoil- 
ment of  some  cavalryman's  forage  cap.  She  con- 
nected these  with  the  buckle  Dade  wore  on  her 
belt,  the  plain  buckle  of  the  West  Point  cadet's 
belt,  though  over  the  washed  gold  of  this  one  was 


426  The  13  th  District 

a  monogram  of  the  initials  of  Dade's  name/'D.E.," 
in  silver. 

"Ahthu'   says "   Dade   began,   stabbing   the 

pins  back  into  the  hat,  and  flinging  it  beside  her 
on  the  couch,  "Oh,  Em,  he's  the  deahest  man — 
pe'fectly  scrumptious!  Ah  must  tell  yo'  abaout 
him." 

And  she  began  a  celebration  of  the  young  sol- 
dier, setting  him  in  what  was  to  her  the  picturesque 
atmosphere  of  a  western  army  post,  and  drawing 
once  more,  in  all  its  details,  the  picture  she  had 
imagined  of  him,  booted  and  spurred  and  gaunt- 
leted^  riding  forth  with  his  dusty  troopers  clatter- 
ing behind  to  do  the  ungentle  deeds  that  somehow 
have  always  filled  the  mind  of  the  gentler  sex  with 
a  sentimental  pleasure. 

"And  oh,"  she  said,  "Ah  must  tell  yo'  abaout  his 
being  o'dehed  to  proceed  along  the  South  Fo'k 
of  the — something-oah-othah — Ah  must  write 
to-day  and  get  the  name  of  that  rivah — all  hidden 
by  cottonwoods  along  its  banks,  just  lak  in  the 
books,  yo'  know — and  destroy  all  Piegan  Indians. 
He  was  a  shavetail  then,  and  didn't  know  a  Piegan 
Indian  from  a  Sioux,  and  he  nea'ly  brought  on  a 
wah.  If  it  hadn't  been  fo'  his  old  first  se'geant — 
Oh,  his  men  all  love  him.  Ah  know — eve'body 
does!" 

And  so  she  flowed  on,  while  Emily  sat  and  list- 
ened with  the  mellowed  smile  of  an  indulgence 
almost  motherly. 

"And  we  ah  going  to  live  in  Washington  at  first, 
he's    General — What's-his-name's    aide    now,    yo' 


The   Final    Returns  427 

know.  That's  why  he's  allowed  to  weah  aiguil- 
lettes;  Ah  must  show  them  to  yo'  in  his  photo- 
graph. But  when  he's  changed,  we'll  probably 
have  to  go  to  some  weste'n  post.  Think  of  mah 
living  aout  theah — an  ahmy  woman!  Ah'll  have 
an  Indian  to  cook  fo'  us,  and  yo'  and  Je — Mistuh 
Gahwood  must  come  aout  and  visit  us.  He  can  get 
himself  appointed  on  a  committee  to  inspect  ahmy 
posts,  yo'  know,  yo'  all  can  save  lots  of  money 
that  way.  Ah've  grown  economical  since  Ah'm 
going  to  mah'y  an  ahmy  officeh.  They  get  awfully 
small  salaries;  it's  a  shame.  But  Mistuh  Gah- 
wood can  have  himself  put  on  the  committee " 

"I'm  afraid  Washington  has  corrupted  you, 
Dade,"  said  Emily. 

"Corrupted  me?"  the  girl  repeated.  "Co'se  it 
has,  it  corrupts  eve'ybody.  That's  what  eve'ybody 
does  down  theah.  It's  all  pull — that's  the  way 
Ahthu'  got  his  detail  as  aide." 

Emily's  face  had  lost  its  smile,  and  had  sobered. 

"Yes,"  she  breathed  with  a  sigh.  "Did  you  see 
Jerome  there?" 

Dade  looked  at  Emily  questioningly  an  instant, 
and  then  she  hastened  to  say: 

"How  stupid  of  me!  To  sit  heah  and  talk  of 
Ahthu'  when  Ah  ought  to  have  known  that  yo' 
all  weh  dying  to  heah  abaout  yoah  husband.  Oh, 
yes.  Ah  saw  him  at  a  distance  a  numbah  of  times, 
and  one  day  Ah  met  him  in  the  rotunda  of  the 
Capitol.  We  weh  in  the  gallery,  Ahthu'  and  Ah, 
and  had  heahd  him  make  a  speech." 

Emily  had  leaned  forward  a  little;  her  lips  were 


428  The  13  th   District 

parted,  and  her  teeth  showed  in  the  first  smile  of 
real  interest  she  had  displayed.  She  laid  her  hand 
lightly  on  Dade's  arm,  finding  it  a  comfort  to  touch 
some  one  who  had  been  there  in  Washington, 
some  one  wdio  had  seen  him  in  his  proper  place, 
some  one  who  had  heard  him  speak,  who  had 
spoken  to  him  and  touched  his  hand. 

"What  speech  was  it,  Dade?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 
"The  one  in  the  tarifif  debate,  or " 

"Oh,  goodness  me'cy  me!"  ejaculated  Dade.  "Ah 
don't  know  what  it  was  on — yo'  can't  tell  a  wo'd 
they  say,  they  all  make  so  much  noise.  Ahthu' 
said  it  was  lak  a  sun  dance  of  the  Ogallalla  Sioux." 

"Tell  me,  how  did  he  look?"  Emily's  eyes  were 
glistening. 

"He  looked  splendid,  Emily,  splendid.  He  rose, 
yo'  know,  suddenly,  and  began  to  speak  befo'  Ah 
knew  it  w^as  he  at  all.  And  he  grew  excited,  and 
all  the  othahs  crowded  in  to  heah — it  must  have 
been  a  great  speech." 

Emily  made  Dade  tell  her  all  she  could  recall 
out  of  her  scattered  memories  of  that  scene,  and 
the  glow  in  her  eyes  mingled  all  the  love  she  had 
borne  him,  all  the  hopes  she  had  cherished,  and 
all  the  high  envy  of  Dade,  to  whom  it  had  been 
given  to  be  there  and  behold  that  scene. 

"And  how  is  he  looking,  tell  me  that?"  asked 
Emily  when  Dade  had  told  her  at  last  that  she 
could  think  of  no  more  to  tell. 

Dade  turned  toward  her  as  if  she  had  an  un- 
pleasant revelation  to  make,  and  said^  hesitat- 
ingly: 


The   Final    Returns  429 

"Well,  Emily — he's  grown  fat!" 

She  thought  of  the  trim,  narrow-waisted  figure 
of  her  own  brown  soldier  lover.  But  Emily  only 
laughed. 

"Yes,"  she  observed,  "Mother  Garwood  says  his 
father  filled  out  at  his  age." 

Then  Dade  resumed  her  celebration  of  Beck 
once  more,  and  described  for  Emily  the  glories 
of  the  Army  and  Navy  ball.  And  when  she  had 
done,  she  sat,  her  chin  on  her  little  white  fist,  and 
looked  dreamily  out  of  the  open  window  into  the 
cool  green  foliage  of  the  trees,  where  some  robins 
were  building  a  nest.  Emily  likewise  fell  into 
reverie,  and  they  sat  there  a  long  time  before  the 
reverie  was  broken.    It  was  Dade  at  last  who  said: 

"Emily,  ah  mah'ied  people  happieh  than  single 
people?" 

The  childishness  of  the  question  was  lost  upon 
Emily,  whose  thoughts  had  been  busy  with  the 
unpleasant  task  of  contrasting  her  own  girlhood's 
dreams  and  their  fulfilment  with  the  dreams  of 
Dade  and  their  promise. 

"No,"  she  said  in  reply.  Her  voice  was  a  mere 
hollow  note. 

"Ah  yo'  all  happy?"  said  Dade. 

"Y-yes,"  Emily  answered.  Her  voice  was  still 
pitched  on  that  hollow  note. 

Dade  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  Emily.  She 
saw  her  great  eyes  blinking,  the  tears  brimming 
to  their  long  lashes.  She  looked  and  wondered, 
looked  as  long  as  she  dared.  And  the  wide,  wide 
distance  between  them  she  did  not  try  to  span  by 


430  The  i3th  District 

any  words,  but  together  they  sat,  and  pondered 
on  the  great  thing  that  had  come  into  their  lives, 
as  it  comes  into  all  lives,  with  its  hope  and  its  frus- 
tration of  hope,  its  joy  and  its  death  of  joy,  its 
peace  and  its  tragedy. 


VI 


THOUGH  it  was  still  early  in  May,  though 
the  business  of  the  nation  was  pressing  for 
attention,  though  the  reforms  promised  by 
the  party  in  power  had  not  been  brought  to  pass, 
and  though  two  months  must  elapse  before  the 
candidates  for  the  presidency  could  be  nominated, 
six  before  a  president  could  be  elected,  and  nearly 
a  year  before  he  could  be  inducted  into  office,  the 
coming  national  conventions  already  wrought  a 
curious  effect  in  the  nation. 

In  the  first  place,  that  strange  artificial  thing 
which  men  call  business  felt  a  peculiar  numbing 
influence  stealing  over  it.  Men  began  to  move 
cautiously,  to  speak  guardedly,  to  control  their 
opinions.  They  grew  crafty  and  secretive,  as  if  the 
trend  of  events  depended  on  what,  in  the  next  few 
months,  they  said  or  did.  The  great  question,  of 
course,  was  not  what  should  be  done  to  make  the 
people  better  and  happier,  though  there  was  abun- 
dant pretense  that  this  was  so,  but  who  should  get 
hold  of  the  ofifices,  for  only  so  far  as  the  holding  of 
offices  and  the  drawing  of  salaries  could  make  men 
and  those  dependent  upon  them  happier,  did  this 
question  of  the  joy  of  humanity  enter  into  the  calcu- 
lations of  men. 

Those  already  in  office  sighed  as  they  thought  of 
the   rapidity  with   which   their  terms   had  rolled 
431 


432  The  13  th  District 

around  and  wondered  how  they  might  stay  in.  The 
greater  army  of  those  who  had  been  out  of  ofifice, 
and  for  whom  the  time  had  dragged  so  slowly  by, 
were  wondering  how  to  get  in.  To  succeed  in 
either  case  it  was  not  necessary  that  men  should 
have  programs  of  reform  and  progress,  or  to  have 
any  real  understanding  of  the  theories  of  govern- 
ment, it  was  only  necessary  for  them  to  say  that 
they  belonged  to  one  or  the  other  of  two  great 
parties  into  which  the  people  had  arbitrarily  divided 
themselves,  and  to  be  able  to  control,  somehowj, 
other  men  in  the  casting  of  their  votes. 

There  were,  of  course,  two  or  three  other  parties, 
small  and  without  hope  of  success,  so  that  the  men 
who  belonged  to  them  could  honestly  say  what 
they  thought,  but  it  was  not  considered  respectable 
or  dignified  to  belong  to  any  of  these  smaller  par- 
ties, and  the  men  who  adhered  to  them  were  ridi- 
culed and  ostracized  and  made  to  feel  ashamed. 

Everywhere  in  Washington,  where  all  depend  in 
some  way  upon  the  Government,  in  the  cloak  rooms 
of  the  two  houses  of  Congress,  in  the  rotundas  and 
lobbies  of  hotels,  in  the  clubs  and  bar-rooms,  in 
drawing  rooms  and  parlors,  and  in  the  secret  cham- 
bers of  the  White  House  itself,  men  talked  of  noth- 
ing but  these  national  conventions.  In  Congress 
business  was  dragging.  The  usual  daily  sessions 
were  held,  and  perfervid  speeches  were  delivered, 
but  there  was  no  legislation,  which  was  perhaps 
just  as  well.  Both  parties  feared  just  then  the 
possible  efifect  legislation  might  have  on  the  voters, 
and  each  sought  to  put  the  other  in  an  unpopular 


The    Final    Returns  433 

attitude  before  the  people.  In  a  word,  as  the  cor- 
respondents wrote  in  the  lengthened  specials  they 
wired  to  their  newspapers  each  night,  the  politi- 
cians at  Washington  were  playing  politics. 

To  Garwood,  however,  this  life  was  full  and 
satisfying.  To  saunter  over  to  the  House  at  noon, 
to  saunter  back,  to  lean  at  the  corner  of  the  little 
bar  in  the  Arlington,  one  foot  cocked  over  the 
other,  his  broad  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and 
the  Havana  cigar  between  his  teeth  tilted  at  an 
angle  parallel  with  the  line  of  his  hat  brim,  thus 
preserving  to  the  eye  the  symmetry  of  the  whole 
striking  picture  he  knew  he  made — this  was  ex- 
istence for  him. 

"You'll  be  on  yoah  state  delegation  to  the  na- 
tional convention,  I  take  it,  suh?"  Colonel  Bird 
would  say  to  him. 

"Well,"  Garwood  would  reply,  'T  don't  know  yet 
whether  I'll  go  on  at  large  or  not.  It'll  all  depend 
on  the  situation  when  we  get  down  to  Springfield. 
Unless  the  boys  feel  that  I  could  do  more  good 
somewhere  else,  I'll  go  on.  Anyway,  I'll  go  from 
the  district." 

"Well,  you'll  be  theah,  I'm  suah,  suh.  Boy — 
make  us  anothah  of  those  mint  juleps.     And,  boy ! 

— if  you  will  allow  me,  suh "  the  colonel  bowed 

in  his  courtly  old-school  way  to  Garwood — "don't 
mash  the  mint  this  time,  just  pinch  the  sprigs,  oah 
twis'  them,  so  as  to  avoid  the  bittah  flavah  you 
othawise  impaht  to  yoah  concoction.  I  find  it  ve'y 
difficult,  Colonel,"  the    old    gentleman  continued. 


434  The  i3th  District 

turning  to  Garwood,  "to  get  a  julep  made  prope'ly 
out  of  Kentucky." 

It  pleased  Garwood  to  be  addressed  as  colonel, 
as  it  pleases  any  man,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a 
momentary  regret  that  he  had  not  induced  Colonel 
Warfield  to  ask  the  governor  of  Illinois  to  appoint 
him  as  an  aide-de-camp  on  his  stafif,  so  that  the 
title  might  be  his.  He  resolved  to  have  that  done 
if — but  his  mind  darkened  at  the  prospect  of  all  he 
must  sufifer  and  endure  before  his  political  for- 
tunes could  again  be  considered  secure.  Another 
campaign  with  all  its  uncertainty  lay  before  him, 
and  there  was  no  Rankin  any  more  to  lean  on. 
He  preferred  to  close  his  eyes  to  the  future,  and 
to  live  to  the  full  the  happy  moments  that  flew 
by  so  swiftly. 

The  colonel  had  insisted  on  their  seating  them- 
selves at  one  of  the  two  or  three  small  tables  in 
the  little  bar-room,  so  that  he  might  sip  his  julep 
in  the  lazy  deliberation  so  dear  to  his  Southern 
nature,  and  as  they  sat  there,  other  members 
dropped  in,  and  were  invited  by  the  colonel  with 
a  hospitable  wave  of  his  white  hand  to  join  them. 

They  were  all  glad  to  do  so,  for  Colonel  Bird  rep- 
resented one  of  those  Kentucky  districts  dear  to 
the  congressional  heart,  which  not  only  afforded 
a  romantic  background  for  his  own  picturesque  fig- 
ure, but  possessed  a  higher  attribute  in  this,  that 
it  always  returned  the  colonel  to  Washington  with- 
out contest  or  question.  He  was  never  troubled 
about  renomination  or  reelection.  He  had  been 
speaking  of  that  district  for  years-r-ever  since  he 


The   Final   Returns  435 

had  accepted  the  benefits  of  the  amnesty  proclama- 
tion, which  he  affected  to  despise — with  a  calm 
proprietary  air  that  filled  the  souls  of  the  men 
gathered  about  him  in  the  afternoon  of  this  warm 
spring  day,  with  a  longing  far  above  all  the  other 
longings  of  spring. 

The  colonel  had  laid  off  his  planter's  hat,  and 
with  his  paunch  pressed  against  the  table,  sat  and 
tinkled  the  ice  in  his  tall  glass  as  if  he  loved  its 
cool  music,  and  awaited  the  serving  of  the  others 
whom  he  had  invited  to  become  of  his  party.  He 
sat  erectly,  as  his  paunch  forced  him  to  do,  and 
now  and  then,  in  a  way  that  added  to  his  dignity, 
stroked  the  mustaches  and  imperial  that  were  white 
as  cotton  against  his  red  face.  But  his  relief  was 
apparent  when  at  last  the  bartender  brought  the 
fragrant  glasses  with  their  cool  crystal  reflecting 
the  green  of  the  little  sprigs  of  mint,  and  then  he 
bowed,  as  well  as  he  could,  and  formally  awaited 
the  pleasure  of  his  guests. 

"How!"  said  Ladd,  of  Colorado,  in  the  big  west- 
ern voice  that  so  heartily  expressed  the  amenity 
that  all  felt  due  the  occasion. 

"Suhs,"  replied  the  colonel,  "voah  ve'y  good 
health." 

The  colonel  took  a  long  pull  at  the  straw,  and 
then  straightening  himself,  sat,  warm  and  red  and 
pompous,  the  glossy  bosom  of  his  shirt  arching 
itself  to  meet  his  imperial  as  though  it  would  do 
its  best  to  replace  the  starched  frills  that  his  ante- 
bellum personality  lacked. 


436  The  i3th  District 

"Well,  Colonel,  whom  are  you  Democrats  going 
to  nominate?"  asked  Van  Beek,  of  New  York. 

"Well,  suh,"  the  colonel  began,  speaking  gravely 
and  with  much  consideration,  as  if  he  were  indeed 
to  deliver  the  judgment  of  his  party's  convention. 
"Pehsonally,  I'd  like  to  see  a  Southe'n  gentleman, 
of  cou'se.  But  that  reminds  me  of  an  old  friend 
of  mine,  who  came  down  to  see  me  'long  in  the 
spring  of  seventy-six  to  ask  that  same  question, 
suh.  You  all  remembah  that  the'  was  a  good  deal 
of  discussion  goin'  on  in  ouah  pahty  that  yeah 
about  ouah  p'ospective  candidate.  The  friend  to 
whom  I  refeh  was  an  old  fellah  who  lived  neah 
mah  place,  and  he  always  came  ovah  to  see  me 
whenevah  I  got  home  f'om  Washington,  in  o'dah 
to  discuss  the  political  issues  of  the  day.  I  received 
him,  and  we  sat  down  on  the  po'ch,  and  aftah  I'd 
called  mah  house  niggah  to  make  us  some  juleps — 
I  wish,  suhs,  we  had  those  juleps  heah  to-day, 
though  I  do  not  wish  to  dispa'age  the  liquah  ouah 
landlo'd  se'ves  heah,  not  at  all,  suhs."  He  inclined 
his  head  apologetically  toward  the  bar.  'T  had 
known  this  old  man  fo'  a  long  pe'iod  of  tahm.  He 
was  a  po'  fahmah,  but — he  rode  in  mah  troop." 

The  colonel  paused  again,  that  the  company 
might  have  time  to  appreciate  the  paternal  relation 
of  officer  and  man  who  had  ridden  with  Morgan's 
Raiders,  and  then  went  on: 

"I  rehea'sed  the  names  of  seve'al  of  the  distin- 
guished gentlemen  whose  names  had  been  brought 
fo'wahd  by  theah  friends  fo'  the  high  office.  The' 
was  Tilden,  and  Seymoah,  and  Bayahd^  and  Thu'- 


The    Final    Returns  437 

man,  and  othahs  you'll  remembuh,  but  none  of 
them  seemed  somehow  to  impress  the  ol'  fellah 
favo'ably.  No,  suh,  none  of  the  names  seemed 
to  impress  the  ol'  fellah  favo'ably,  till  at  las',  I 
added:  'And  then,  theah's  some  mention  of  Davis,' 
meaning  the  distinguished  ju'ist  of  yoah  state, 
suh,"  the  colonel  explained,  bowing  to  Garwood, 
who,  as  if  expressly  deputed  thereto  by  the  gov- 
ernor of  Illinois,  bowed  the  acknowledgment  that 
seemed  to  be  due  the  honor  thus  conferred  upon 
that  commonwealth. 

"At  the  magic  name  of  Davis,  the  po'  ol'  man's 
eyes  lit  up  with  Promethean  fiah,"  the  colonel  con- 
tinued, his  own  little  eyes  sparkling,  "and,  leaning 
fo'wahd,  trembling  like  an  aspen  leaf,  with  the 
delight  he  was  almost  afraid  to  indulge,  he  looked 
cahfully  all  about  him,  and  took  his  long  seegah 
from  his  lips,  and  then  he  whispehed:  'But,  Colo- 
nel, ain't  yo'  all  afeahed  it's  a  leetle  airly?' 

"And  so,  suhs,"  the  colonel  resumed,  having 
bent  his  purple  face  to  sip  his  julep  and  to  give 
his  companions  opportunity  to  pay  his  story  the 
tribute  of  the  laugh  he  demanded,  "I  feah  in  this 
instance,  suhs,  it's  a  leetle  airly  fo'  a  Southron." 

"But,  se'iously,  suhs,"  the  colonel  went  on,  after 
a  proper  pause,  "I'm  goin'  back  to  Kentucky  the 
end  of  this  month.  I'll  go  ovah  to  Frankfo't,  and 
I'll  go  to  the  Capitol  Hotel,  and  theah  I'll  meet 
the  friends  of  mah  own  state,  and  aftah  that,  I'll 
have  some  idea  of  whom  I  shall  suppoht  when  we 
all  get  up  to  Chicago." 

"Like  to  get  over  to  Frankfort,  don't  you,  Colo- 


438  The  13  th   District 

nel?"  asked  Conley  of  Ohio,  in  the  bald  way  that 
men  had  of  inducing  the  colonel  to  talk  about  Ken- 
tucky. 

"Well,  suh,  yes,  suh,  in  a  ce'tain  sense  I  dew. 
It's  ve'y  pleasant  fo'  a  gentleman  to  meet  all  his 
old  friends  and  comrades  in  ahnis,  as  I  do  theah, 
but  I  will  say  this,  suhs,  that  theah  is  at  Frank- 
fo't  an  aggregation  of  men  who  seemingly  fo'  ages 
have  been  hanging  onto  the  public  teat  theah, 
suhs,  and  who,  if  the  good  Lawd  would  see  fit 
to  snatch  them  to  his  bosom,  would  be  the  sub- 
jects of  a  special  dispensation  of  divahn  Provi- 
dence in  which  I  could  acquiesce,  suhs,  with  an 
enthusiasm  that  would  be  tuhbulent  and  even  riot- 
ous." 

After  this  the  colonel,  feeling  that  politeness 
demanded  the  elimination  of  himself  from  his  con- 
versation, temporarily  at  least,  turned  to  Garwood 
and  said: 

"Have  you  got  a  contes'  on  in  yoah  district  this 
yeah,  Colonel?" 

"I  always  have  had,"  said  Garwood,  and  a  sud- 
den rueful  expression  overspread  his  countenance, 
"and  I  know  no  reason  to  expect  any  change  in  the 
ordinary  routine  this  year." 

"Well,  suh,  I  wish  I  weh  at  liberty  to  go  into 
yoah  district  this  fall  and  make  some  speeches  fo' 
you,"  said  the  colonel,  with  that  naive  conceit  of 
his  which  led  him  to  feel  that  his  presence  would 
save  the  day  for  Garwood. 

"If  you  could  go  out  there  nozv,  with  your  gun, 
and  in  approved  Kentucky  style,  kill  off  a  few  men 


The   Final    Returns  439 

I  could  name,  I  would  like  it  almost  as  well,"  Gar- 
wood replied. 

The  colonel  made  no  answer  to  this.  But  he 
looked  a  stern  rebuke  at  Garwood,  as  at  one  who 
trifled  with  grave  and  serious  matters. 

They  sat  there  and  drank  and  listened  to  the 
colonel's  stories  until  the  evening  came,  until  the 
night  itself  had  fallen.  And  then  Garwood  received 
Pusey's  telegram,  and  it  smote  him  dumb  in  the 
middle  of  a  laugh.  He  had  only  time  to  ask  Colo- 
nel Bird  to  request  a  leave  of  absence  for  him, 
before  he  hurried  away  to  pack  his  bag.  The  colo- 
nel was  delighted,  of  course,  to  have  the  opportu- 
nity to  act  for  a  friend  in  any  matter.  In  fact, 
nothing  could  please  him  more  than  to  be  enabled 
to  rise  in  his  place  in  the  House  in  all  that  morning 
dignity  which  no  dissipation  of  the  previous  night 
could  impair,  and  address  the  Speaker.  And  it 
may  have  been  merely  to  show  his  appreciation  of 
the  confidence  thus  reposed  in  him,  that  he  went 
with  Garwood  to  see  him  safely  aboard  his  train, 
on  which  he  was  to  speed  westward,  with  troubled 
mind,  through  the  mountains  and  over  the  plains, 
out  to  Illinois. 


VII 


GARWOOD'S  train,  like  most  trains  that  go 
through  Grand  Prairie,  was  late  that  even- 
ing, and  the  white  twilight  upon  which 
Emily  had  depended  for  protection  as  she  waited 
at  the  station,  had  deepened  to  a  gloom  that  al- 
most absorbed  her  little  figure,  clad  in  the  black  of 
her  mourning  garb,  though  the  little  toque  and 
jacket  she  wore  were  of  a  vernal  fashion  that  lent 
a  smartness  to  her  attire.  She  had  determined  to 
spend  the  half  hour  she  had  to  wait  beyond  the 
moment  scheduled  for  the  train's  arrival,  in  fancy- 
ing herself  again  in  her  husband's  arms,  and  in 
imagining  his  joy  at  being  once  more  at  home  with 
her,  but  the  memories  of  her  last  visit  to  this  station 
on  that  rainy  December  night  long  ago,  when  she 
had  reached  home  from  her  broken  visit  to  Wash- 
ington, would  crowd  in  upon  her,  and  torture  her, 
setting  in  train  thoughts  that  assailed  her  resolute 
cheerfulness. 

The  station  agent  had  begun  by  energetically 
chalking  on  the  blackboard  that  was  nailed  under 
the  wide  eaves  of  the  little  chalet  that  did  for  a 
station,  the  number  of  minutes  the  train  was 
late.  When  that  time  fled  by,  and  the  train  did 
not  come,  he  rubbed  out  his  first  figures  and 
chalked  in  others;  when  the  minutes  these  inade- 
quately symboled  had  gone  by  like  the  rest,  he 
440 


The    Final    Returns  441 

gave  over  the  effort  and  flatly  told  Emily,  with 
a  helpless  gesture  that  spoke  his  refusal  to  be 
any  longer  responsible,  that  he  did  not  know  when 
the  train  would  come.  He  glanced  at  the  lights  on 
his  semaphore,  and  then  shut  himself  into  his  lit- 
tle ticket  office,  where  the  telegraph  instrument, 
ticking  feverishly  away,  indicated  some  remaining 
spark  of  life  in  the  railroad's  system. 

Emily  had  been  worrying  for  some  time  about  all 
the  possible  things  that  might  happen  to  the  baby 
during  her  absence.  She  had  been  worrying  about 
the  dinner  she  had  ordered  in  place  of  their  usual 
supper,  but  that^  she  was  sure,  had  long  ago  grown 
cold,  and  was  beyond  reach  even  of  a  woman's 
worry. 

The  train  came  at  last,  when  every  one  about  the 
station  had  collapsed  into  an  attitude  of  having 
given  it  up  entirely,  and  Emily  forgot  her  long 
wait  in  the  joy  with  which  she  rushed  forth  to 
greet  her  husband.  She  saw  his  big  figure  emerg- 
ing from  the  last  coach  on  the  train.  His  hat  was 
pulled  down  to  his  brows,  and  he  looked  out  upon 
the  desolate  scene  that  the  little  station  presents  to 
the  traveler  who  enters  Grand  Prairie  by  that  road, 
with  the  crossness  of  a  passenger  whose  train  with 
almost  human  perversity  had  been  losing  time  ever 
since  it  started.  When  he  saw  Emily  he  did  not 
quicken  his  pace,  though  he  walked  on  in  her  direc- 
tion, with  a  long  face  that  told  her  he  was  entitled 
to  her  pity  and  sympathy  for  all  that  he  had  to 
endure  in  life.  She  ran  toward  him,  and  he  bent 
his  head  that  she  might  embrace  his  neck  and  kiss 


442  The  13  th  District 

him.  She  clung  there  an  instant,  and  when  she 
released  him  his  eyes  were  searching  the  barren 
platform. 

"Nobody  else  here?"  he  asked, 

"Why,  no,  dear — who  would " 

"Isn't  Pusey  here?" 

"Pusey?"  she  repeated,  in  surprise.  But  Gar- 
wood made  no  answer.  He  was  thinking  of  the 
old  days  when  he  was  always  met  by  Rankin,  and 
usually  by  half  a  dozen  of  Rankin's  followers  gath- 
ered together  to  give  eclat  to  the  congressman's 
home-coming.  But  now  there  was  no  one  to  meet 
him  but  Emily. 

He  insisted  upon  a  carriage  to  be  driven  home 
in,  saying  the  ride  from  Olney  in  the  common 
coach  had  nearly  killed  him,  .and  when^  above  the 
rattle  of  the  old  hack's  windows,  Emily  said: 

"Fm  so  glad  to  have  you  home  again,"  her  last 
words  somehow  expressed  the  whole  situation 
against  which  his  nature  was  in  revolt,  and  he 
cried  out: 

"Yes,  home  again!  Nice  time  to  be  called  away 
from  Washington!  What  are  they  all  trying  to  do 
here  now,  do  you  know?" 

"They  seem,"  Emily  replied,  "to  be  trying  to 
defeat  you  for  a  third  term." 

"Well,  I  sometimes  wish  they'd  succeed,"  said 
Garwood;  "sometimes  I  get  sick  of  this  whole 
business  of  politics,  and  wish " 

Emily  was  sitting  upright,  her  face  turned  away 
from  him  in  her  disappointment. 

"So  do  I,"  she  acquiesced,  in  a  low  voice. 


The   Final   Returns  443 

"Well,"  Garwood  growled,  as  if  she  and  not  he 
himself  had  suggested  the  very  disaster  which  of 
all  others  he  most  feared,  "they  won't  beat  me  this 
time,  I'll  tell  'em  that.  I  reckon  Jim  Rankin's  at 
the  bottom  of  it  all." 


VIII 


THE  curtains  were  drawn  at  the  windows  of 
Garwood's  law  office  that  night,  but  the  thin 
Hp  of  Hght  that  outlined  the  casement  told  to 
belated  men  in  Grand  Prairie  that  a  conference  was 
going  on  within.  The  primaries  were  but  two  days 
off,  and  a  vague  uncertain  quality  in  the  rays  that 
straggled  into  the  gloom  and  lightened  the  rusty 
gilt  letters  of  Garwood's  sign,  creaking  as  it  had 
done  for  so  many  years  in  the  wind,  might  have 
hinted  to  the  imaginative  something  of  the  straits 
in  which  the  little  council  gathered  within  found 
itself. 

Had  such  a  one  been  acquainted  with  politics  in 
that  prairie  district,  and  had  seen  Jim  Rankin  pass 
by  at  midnight  under  the  trees  that  swayed  the 
thick  black  shadows  of  their  foliage  dizzily  to  and 
fro  on  the  wide  stone  sidewalk,  and  noted  the 
curious  smile  that  glimmered  an  instant  on  Ran- 
kin's face,  when  from  force  of  old  habit  he  raised  an 
upward  glance,  he  would  have  concluded  that  seri- 
ous obstacles  beset  the  way  of  Jerome  B.  Garwood 
in  that  career  to  which  as  a  man  of  destiny  he  had 
believed  himself  ordained,  and  from  which  the  in- 
constant and  ever-changing  circle  of  his  friends 
had  expected  so  much. 

Garwood  had  come  home  to  find  his  political 
condition  desperate.  He  himself,  out  of  the  anger 
444 


The   Final    Returns  445 

that  showed  black  in  his  face  during  those  hot  and 
trying  days,  described  the  situation  as  a  revolt  and, 
had  he  been  possessed  of  the  power,  would  gladly 
have  punished  the  rebels  by  such  stern  repressive 
measures  as  autocratic  governments  employ  in  the 
terror  their  inherent  weakness  inspires. 

Amid  the  spring  delights  of  Washington  public 
life  he  had  become  swollen  with  new  ambitions.  He 
not  only  wished  to  be  renominated  for  Congress, 
but  he  wished  also  to  be  placed  at  the  head  of  the 
Polk  County  delegation  to  the  state  convention 
called  to  meet  in  Springfield  early  in  June;  and 
beyond  this,  he  had  the  higher  wish  to  be  sent 
as  delegate  to  the  national  convention  at  Chicago. 
He  would  have  preferred^  of  course,  to  be  named 
as  one  of  the  Big  Four  delegates  at  large  from  Illi- 
nois, and  when  his  imagination  had  been  more 
warmly  stimulated  by  Colonel  Bird's  mint  juleps, 
he  had  dramatized  himself  as  electrifying  the  na- 
tional convention  by  some  fine  extemporaneous 
flight  of  oratory,  in  which  he  should  soar  in  an 
instant  to  the  pinnacle  of  a  national  fame,  and  from 
that  rare  altitude  behold  new  and  illimitable  pos- 
sibilities of  political  future.  It  was,  therefore,  with 
a  shock  of  disappointment  to  which  he  had  not 
the  power  to  reconcile  himself  that  he  had  obeyed 
Pusey's  urgent  telegram  and  had  come  home  to 
find  his  very  political  existence  at  stake. 

Sprague,  reviled  and  reproached  as  a  perennial 
candidate  by  those  in  the  district  who  were  them- 
selves perennial  candidates,  was  once  more  in  the 
field  seeking  congressional  honors.     His  county, 


446  The  i3th   District 

Moultrie,  had  held  its  convention,  and  once  more 
instructed  its  fifteen  delegates  for  him.  Over  in 
Logan,  General  Barrett,  having  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  promised  land  at  the  Pekin  convention,  had 
so  far  departed  from  the  reserve  and  dignity  of 
his  eminent  respectability  as  to  have  himself  de- 
clared a  candidate,  and  he  had  been  indorsed  by 
his  county.  These  candidatures  did  not  seriously 
alarm  Garv^ood,  but  a  new  complication  had  been 
suddenly  added  to  the  situation  of  such  grave  por- 
tent that  he  had  summoned  about  him  those  who, 
having  received  government  offices  of  varying  de- 
grees of  importance,  still  felt  themselves  bound  to 
his  support. 

This  night,  then,  they  were  gathered  in  the  office 
where  Enright  now  spent  his  days  in  the  midst  of  a 
law  practice  so  immature  and  modest  that  it  could 
not  keep  the  dust  ofif  the  books  that  were  piled  all 
about.  Pusey  was  there  and  Hale  had  hurried  over 
from  Pekin  on  receipt  of  a  telegram  from  Gar- 
wood. Beside  these  were  Kellogg,  whom  Garwood 
had  succeeded  in  placing  in  the  office  of  the  secre- 
tary of  state  at  Springfield,  and  Crawford,  his  pri- 
vate secretary.  They  were  ranged  on  chairs  uni- 
formly tilted  against  the  wall  of  the  little  private 
ofifice,  and  the  air  was  streaked  with  the  customary 
clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  that  indicate  a  political 
fire. 

Hale  lowered,  his  chair  to  the  floor,  and  bent 
over  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  head  hang- 
ing and  his  face  hidden.  The  others  in  the  room, 
except  Pusey,  who  was  as  indifferent  as  ever,  had 


The   Final   Returns  447 

transfixed  him  with  accusing  eyes,  though  any  one 
could  have  told  that  their  attitude  was  feigned  in 
order  to  keep  in  sympathy  with  the  threatening 
mood  of  Garwood,  who  sat  at  his  desk,  and  glow- 
ered at  the  Pekin  postmaster. 

"Why  don't  you  speak?"  demanded  Garwood 
presently,  as  if  Hale  had  been  arraigned  upon  an 
indictment^  and  they  were  waiting  for  him  to  enter 
a  plea. 

Hale  stirred  uneasily,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

"My  God!"  said  Garwood,  petulantly,  "I  don't 
see  why  you  couldn't  have  held  Tazewell,  any- 
how!" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Mr.  Garwood,"  said  Hale, 
at  length,  breaking  under  the  pressure  of  all  those 
accusing  stares,  "you  see,  it's  like  this.  The  people 
over  our  way  are  sore  on  the  president,  they're 
down  on  the  administration " 

"Oh,  hell!"  cried  Garwood,  striking  his  desk  in 
disgust,  "I  don't  give  a  damn  for  what  the  peo- 
ple think  about  the  president,  or  the  administra- 
tion. I  ain't  the  president,  nor  the  administration, 
either." 

"But  they  think  you're  supportin'  the  adminis- 
tration— course," — Hale  hastened  to  disclaim  any 
individual  responsibility  for  so  serious  a  charge — 
"I'm  only  tellin'  you  what  they  say." 

"Well,  didn't  any  of  them  read  my  speech  the 
other  day?  Does  that  look  as  if  I'm  supporting 
the  administration?" 

Hale  had  no  reply  to  make  to  this  argument.  He 


448  The  i3th   District 

only  heaved  his  heavy  shoulders  in  something  that 
approximated  a  shrug. 

"When  was  Bailey  over  there?"  Garwood  de- 
manded. 

"Oh,  he's  been  over  ofif  an'  on  for  a  month." 

"Then  why  in  hell  didn't  you  write  me!"  said 
Garwood,  turning  angrily  in  his  chair.  His  eyes 
blazed  at  Hale  a  moment,  and  then  he  tossed  his 
head  and  looked  away  in  utter  disgust. 

Hale  had  thrown  him  a  glance  that  in  its  turn 
had  some  of  the  anger  that  was  beginning  to  show 
in  his  reddening  face,  and  he  replied: 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  it,  that's  why.  You  can't 
get  on  to  Zeph  Bailey;  he  wades  in  the  water,  he 
does." 

Hale  breathed  hard,  and  no  one  had  an  answer 
ready.  They  all  knew  Bailey's  mysterious  habits, 
and  Hale's  explanation  was  sufificient  to  acquit 
him  in  the  forum  of  their  minds.  Hale  sensed  in- 
stantly a  new  and  defensive  quality  in  the  atmos- 
phere; a  current  of  sympathy  seemed  to  set  in 
toward  him,  and  he  kept  on,  feeling  his  advan- 
tage. 

"Why  didn't  any  of  the  rest  of  you  wise  guys 
get  on  to  him  when  he  come  over  and  started  to  fix 
things  right  here  in  Polk  County?" 

And  they  had  no  answer  for  that.  Garwood, 
sweeping  the  circle  with  a  glance,  and  fearing  a 
division  in  his  own  ranks,  forced  a  smile  of  con- 
ciliation^ and  said: 

"Oh,  well,  if  Bailey's  a  candidate,  we'll  have  to 


The   Final    Returns  449 

fight  him,  that's  all.  It's  only  one  more,  anywav, 
and " 

But  the  menace  of  Bailey's  candidacy  had  cast 
upon  his  spirits  a  shadow  too  dense  to  be  light- 
ened by  mere  words,  and  his  sentence  died  with 
the  confident  air  he  had  been  able  for  a  moment 
to  command.  Hale,  however,  had  been  mollified, 
and  took  Garwood's  manner  from  him,  as  he 
straightened  up  to  say: 

"Course,  we'll  make  a  fight  for  it.  You've  got 
some  friends  left  in  Tazewell,  and  so  have  I,  and 
if  we're  licked,  we'll  die  with  our  boots  on,  that's 
all  there  is  to  that." 

"He  has  his  own  county,  of  course.  And  you 
say  he  has  men  at  work  up  in  DeWitt.     Now,  if 

he  gets  Tazewell  and  Polk — well "  Garwood 

flung  out  his  hands  hopelessly,  as  if  to  surrender. 
"Great  gtms,  what's  the  use?" 

"And  Sprague'll  throw  Moultrie  to  him — that's 
fixed.  Sprague  knows  he  can't  get  it;  he's  just 
been  acting  as  a  stalking  horse  for  Bailey,"  said 
Kellogg,  anxious  to  bear  his  part  in  this  confer- 
ence, even  if  he  could  bring  nothing  cheerful  to  it. 

"How  did  he  ever  get  on  the  blind  side  of 
Sprague?"  queried  Garwood,  peevishly. 

"Oh,  legislature,"  said  Kellogg,  proud  to  be  able 
to  show  his  knowledge  of  afifairs  in  the  state  house 
at  Springfield;  "he  put  some  of  Sprague's  fellows 
— Simp  Lewis  and  some  more  of  'em — on  the  pay 
roll,  and  took  care  of  brother-in-law  Wilson  when 
he  made  up  the  committees." 

"H-m-m-m,"     Garwood    mused,    "Mason    and 


450  The  13  th  District 

Moultrie,  and  DeWitt — if  he  gets  Tazewell  or  Polk 
now — I  don't  know  what  you  gentlemen  think 
about  it,  but  it  looks  to  me  as  if  he  had  us  pretty 
nearly  skinned." 

What  they  thought  of  it  was  not  apparent,  for 
none  of  them  spoke,  and  silence  settled  over  the  lit- 
tle room,  where  Garwood's  ambitions  were  trem- 
bling in  the  fateful  balance.    At  last  Pusey  spoke: 

"He  hasn't  got  Polk  yet." 

Something  of  the  determination  which  the  little 
man  had  put  into  his  tone  affected  the  others,  and 
they  looked  up  with  new  smiles.  A  reaction  set 
in  and  Garwood  glanced  at  Pusey  gratefully. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  trying  to  resume  his  congres- 
sional dignity,  with  a  smile  that  was  intended  to 
take  from  it  its  suggestion  of  distance,  "you  re- 
member what  the  devil  said: 

"  '—let  us 
Consult  how  we  may  henceforth  most  ofifend 
Our  enemy;   our  own  loss  how  repair; 
How  overcome  this  dire  calamity; 
What  reinforcement  we  may  gain  from  hope; 
If  not,  what  resolution  from  despair.' " 

They  stared  at  him  in  amazement,  wondering 
how  it  was  possible  for  him  to  know  what  the 
devil  had  said,  all  except  Pusey,  who  nodded  ap- 
preciatively, to  show  his  own  relation  to  the  world 
of  letters.  And  then  Hale  drew  a  long  breath  and 
threw  back  his  shoulders. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "if  we  can  carry  the  prima- 
ries here  in  Polk,  that  will  help  us  to  win  out  over 
in  my  county.     Can  you  do  it?" 


The   Final    Returns  451 

"How  about  Jim  Rankin?"  blurted  out  the  tact- 
less, maladroit  Kellogg.  The  name  cast  a  chill 
over  the  little  gathering  just  as  the  new  cheer  was 
warming  it,  and  they  were  all  vicariously  embar- 
rassed by  what,  just  at  that  time,  amounted  to  a 
contretemps.  If  Rankin  himself,  passing  by  out- 
side at  that  very  moment,  could  have  seen  the  ex- 
pressive glances  that  were  secretly  exchanged 
before  they  all  yielded  to  the  impulse  to  fix  unitedly 
on  Garwood's  face,  he  would  have  had  a  sensation 
to  gladden  him  during  all  his  homeward  way.  But 
Garwood  met  the  situation  with  real  dignity. 
"Well,  Jim  will  be  against  me,  of  course." 
They  might  have  demurred  out  of  mere  polite- 
ness, but  Garwood  added: 

"And  I  can  assure  you,  gentlemen,  he  is  an  an- 
tagonist not  to  be  despised." 

The  mention  of  Rankin's  name,  however,  had  the 
final  effect  of  forcing  them  to  seek  some  positive 
means  of  dealing  with  the  situation,  and  after  the 
preliminary  waste  of  time  common  to  most  con- 
ferences, they  began  at  last  to  plan  for  the  coming 
primaries.  They  were  at  it  a  long  while,  and  when 
in  the  chill,  ghastly  hours  of  the  early  morning 
they  separated,  Garwood  voiced  what  was  doubt- 
less in  the  hearts  of  all  of  them,  when  he  said  to 
Pusey: 

"Remember,  we  have  Jim  Rankin  to  fight, 
Pusey." 

Pusey  switched  his  little  eyes  toward  Garwood, 
but  Garwood  did  not  see  them.  He  was  thinking 
of  other  days. 


IX 


GARWOOD  awoke  after  a  few  hours  of  restless 
sleep,  snatched  a  hurried  breakfast,  seized 
his  hat  and  was  going  away  without  a  word, 
when  Emily  followed  him  through  the  hall  and  to 
the  door,  and  with  nervousness  and  suspense  show- 
ing in  her  concentrated  brows  she  looked  up  at 
him  and  said: 

"I'll  be  glad  when  this  day's  over." 

"So'll  I,"  he  rejoined,  and  then,  though  he  had 
stepped  on  the  veranda,  he  turned  again.  A  sud- 
den tenderness,  springing  from  the  need  of  support 
and  sympathy  he  himself  felt  that  day,  overflowed 
his  heart,  and  he  pressed  his  fingers  to  her  brow 
and  touched  the  wrinkles. 

"I  don't  like  to  see  those  there,"  he  said,  and  as 
if  in  instant  response  to  his  whim,  her  smile 
smoothed  them  away. 

"You'll  send  me  word,  Jerome,  won't  you?"  she 
said,  "the  babies  and  I'll  be  watching  and  waiting, 
you  know.    Oh,  I  zvish  we  could  help !" 

He  smiled  his  old  smile  at  her  loyalty. 

"Good  by,"  he  said;  "I'll  keep  you  posted."  And 
he  ran  down  the  steps.  The  rain  was  slanting 
down  to  make  an  ideal  primary  day,  and  Garwood 
was  glad  of  the  waiting  carriage  which,  in  the  ex- 
travagance a  man  can  always  justify  to  himself  in 
the  midst  of  a  campaign,  he  had  ordered  the  night 
452 


The    Final   Returns  453 

before.  Emily  watched  him  drive  away,  down  the 
streaming  street.  Once  he  turned  and  looked  back 
through  the  window  at  her,  or  she  thought  he  did, 
and  she  waved  her  hand. 

Then  all  the  morning  long  she  went  about  the 
house  with  the  memory  of  his  kiss  upon  her  lips, 
and  she  sang  at  times,  though  her  heart  would 
forever  leap  into  her  throat  when  she  thought  of 
the  bitter  contest  going  on  in  the  rain  that  was 
falling  upon  the  green  fields  of  Polk  County.  The 
rain  fell  steadily  in  the  gloom  with  an  impressive- 
ness  that  would  remind  her  of  the  silent  fate  which 
that  day  was  deciding  Jerome's  future  and  her  own. 

She  felt  as  if  she  were  passing  through  a  crisis 
in  her  life.  She  found  it  impossible  to  apply  her- 
self steadily  to  any  one  of  the  futile  little  tasks 
that  are  always  awaiting  the  hand  of  the  housewife, 
but  wandered  aimlessly  about,  unable  to  rest,  un- 
able to  work,  unable  to  do  anything  until  she 
knew  the  event  of  that  day.  She  had  found  a  new 
faith  in  Jerome  with  the  kiss  he  had  given  her  at 
parting,  and  she  lived  over  and  over  again  that 
one  last  moment  when  he  had  smiled  down  into  her 
eyes  with  the  expression  she  remembered  of  other 
days.  That  moment  and  that  kiss  were  enough  to 
blot  out  all  the  years  of  her  loneliness  and  renuncia- 
tion, and  as  those  years  faded  from  her  view  she 
could  look  forward  now  with  a  new  hope  and  a  new 
confidence  to  the  happier  days  she  felt  must  come 
when  this  last  battle  had  been  fought.  For  she 
felt  it  would  be  the  last  battle;  she  determined  that 
it  must  be  the  last  battle;    she  could  not  endure 


454  The  i3th   District 

the  strain  and  suspense  of  another,  and  her  soul's 
sincere  desire  took  the  romantic  form  of  a  prayer 
that  Jerome  return  to  her  bearing  his  shield  or  be- 
ing borne  upon  it. 

The  rain  had  come  with  a  thunder  storm  early  in 
the  morning,  but  as  the  day  advanced  the  tempera- 
ture lowered  and  a  cold,  raw  wind  blowing  from 
the  west  lashed  out  the  last  of  the  warm  weather 
they  had  been  having  all  over  central  Illinois.  The 
hope  of  the  spring  seemed  suddenly  gone ;  the  day, 
indeed,  might  have  belonged  to  that  dreary  season 
of  the  fall,  when  gray  clouds  hang  low  and  children 
long  for  the  darkness  that  will  bring  the  needed 
cheer  of  early  lamp-light. 

The  streets  were  silent  and  deserted.  Now  and 
then,  perhaps  some  grocer's  wagon  would  lurch 
along,  its  driver  slapping  the  streaming  rubber 
blanket  on  his  horse's  back  with  his  wet  reins,  and 
sometimes  one  of  the  town's  tattered  old  hacks 
would  rattle  by.  Here  and  there,  near  some  cob- 
bler's shanty,  or  by  the  door  of  a  little  barber  shop, 
ward  workers  huddled  in  shivering  groups,  and 
every  little  while  men  drove  out  of  town  in  buggies 
or  buckboards,  to  look  after  the  caucuses  that  were 
to  be  held  that  afternoon  in  the  townships;  but 
the  people  themselves,  as  their  habit  ever  was,  in 
Grand  Prairie,  evinced  little  interest  in  the  political 
contest  at  this  critical  stage  of  its  development,  and 
seemed  to  be  indoors  waiting  for  the  rain  to  cease. 

Yet  a  great  battle  was  raging  in  Grand  Prairie 
that  day,  and  Garwood's  law  offices  were  once  more 
serving  as  political  headquarters.  All  morning  long 


The   Final    Returns  455 

the  crowd  of  workers  whom  he  had  enrolled  in  his 
new  organization  thronged  the  outer  office,  each 
of  them  wishing  to  seize  Garwood  a  moment  for 
himself,  as  if  his  suggestion,  or  his  complaint,  or 
the  news  he  bore  was  such  that  Garwood  himself 
alone  should  hear  it. 

Their  clothes  were  soaked  with  the  rain,  their 
wet  boots  tracked  the  floor  with  mud,  their  um- 
brellas trickled  little  streams  of  dirty  water.  The 
air,  already  saturated  with  heavy  moisture  and 
foggy  with  the  smoke  of  tobacco,  which  does  for 
the  smoke  of  battle  in  these  political  contests,  was 
foul  with  the  fumes  of  beer  and  whisky,  while  the 
whiff  of  an  onion  now  and  then  brought  to  mind 
the  long  saloon  of  Chris  Steisfloss  below  where  the 
pink  mosquito-netting  had  been  removed  for  that 
day  from  the  free-lunch  table. 

In  his  private  office,  his  rumpled  hair  falling  to 
his  haggard  eyes,  his  cravat  untied,  his  long  coat 
tails  gathered  behind  the  hands  that  were  thrust 
deep  in  his  trousers'  pockets,  Garwood  strode  back 
and  forth  silent  and  savage,  chewing  the  cigar  that 
smoked  away  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  Pusey 
was  with  him,  tapping  in  and  out  of  the  room,  and 
so  was  Hale.  Hale  had  been  there  all  morning,  for, 
having  no  acquaintance  in  Grand  Prairie,  he  could 
do  nothing  outside,  and  so  he  sat,  feeling  that  his 
stolid,  imponderable  presence  must  somehow  be  a 
comfort  to  Garwood.  And,  besides,  he  did  not 
know  how  he  could  decently  get  away. 

Garwood  spoke  to  neither  of  them;  but  walked 
the  floor  and  rolled  his  cigar  round  and  round  in 


456  The  i3th   District 

his  mouth,  spitting  out  pieces  of  it  now  and  then 
savagely.  Once  at  the  end  of  the  beat  he  was 
pacing  he  paused  by  the  revolving  bookcase  in 
which  he  had  kept  his  working  library,  the  books 
he  had  needed  at  his  elbow  when  he  was  digging 
into  the  law.  These  books,  because  of  that  rapid 
displacement  which  goes  on  in  law  libraries,  so 
swiftly  do  the  appellate  courts  grind  out  new  de- 
cisions, were  now  out  of  date ;  the  statutes  were 
two  sessions  behind  the  Legislature,  the  digest  had 
been  superseded  by  a  new  edition,  the  last  six 
numbers  of  his  set  of  the  reports  were  missing. 

But  he  did  not  observe  these  things — a  little 
volume  had  caught  his  eye,  and  he  picked  it 
up,  blew  the  dust  from  it,  and  opened  it.  And  as 
his  glance  fell  on  its  pages,  its  well-read  remem- 
bered pages,  his  face  softened  and  there  passed 
across  its  darkness  the  faint  reflection  of  a  smile. 
It  was  not  a  law  book,  for  Garwood  held  it  ten- 
derly in  his  hand,  as  though  he  loved  it,  and  men 
do  not  learn  to  love  law  books.  It  was  a  little 
leather  covered  copy  of  Epictetus,  with  the  imprint 
of  a  London  publisher  on  its  title  page,  one  that 
Emily  had  given  him,  and  he  had  read  it  through 
and  through,  and  it  bore  many  loving  marks  on  its 
margins. 

It  had  lain  there  on  that  bookcase,  possibly  un- 
touched, certainly  unopened  for  years.  He  must 
have  tossed  it  down  there  before  his  first  cam- 
paign— how  long  ago  that  seemed!  He  turned 
over  the  pages  and  here  and  there  he  saw  a  marked 
passage,  words  that  once  had  thrilled  him,  more 


The   Final    Returns         457 

than  that.,  words  that  had  comforted  him,  but  now 
they  were  cold  and  dead,  they  no  longer  had  any 
meaning  or  any  message  for  him ;  he  wondered  for 
a  moment  why  it  was  so.  But  his  mind  could  not 
long  desert  its  hard  pressed  post  that  day,  and  if 
for  an  instant  he  yearned  for  some  of  the  peace  of 
the  days  that  little  book  somehow  stood  for,  he 
tossed  it  back  where  it  had  lain  so  long,  brushed 
his  fingers  together  to  fleck  the  dust  from  them, 
and  resumed  his  pacing. 

Noon  came,  the  clock  in  the  high  school  tower 
struck,  the  bell  in  the  fire  engine  house  tapped,  the 
whistle  at  the  woolen  mills  blew.  The  outer  office 
was  deserted,  Pusey  had  left  an  hour  before,  and 
when  Crawford  and  Hale  suggested  luncheon  to 
Garwood,  he  shook  his  head  so  petulantly  that  they 
were  glad  enough  to  go  out  and  leave  him  alone. 
When  they  had  gone,  he  sank  into  his  chair, 
sprawled  his  long  legs  out  before  him,  and  sat  there 
scowling  darkly. 

He  sat  there  a  long  while,  but  finally  he  roused, 
got  up,  opened  the  ugly  walnut  cupboard  in  his 
room,  drew  out  a  bottle  and  a  glass  and  poured 
out  for  himself  a  generous  draft  of  whisky.  He 
drank  the  stuff  without  water,  raw,  and  when  he 
had  taken  advantage  of  his  brief  seclusion  to  light 
a  cigarette,  inhaling  its  smoke  eagerly,  he  began 
to  pace  the  floor  again.  Two  or  three  times  after 
that  he  stopped  by  the  cupboard  and  took  the 
bottle  down;  at  last  he  did  not  put  it  back  in  its 
hiding  place,  but  set  it  out  openly  on  his  desk. 


458  The  13  th  District 

Now,  the  times  he  passed  it  without  drinking  were 
growing  fewer  and  fewer. 

Hale  was  the  first  to  return.  Garwood  had  just 
halted  by  his  desk  and  poured  himself  another 
drink,  and  he  stood  with  his  hand  still  on  the  bottle 
when  Hale  burst  into  the  room.  The  man's  face 
plainly  foreboded  evil  tidings,  and  he  stood  and 
stared  at  Garwood  without  speaking,  as  if  he  dis- 
liked to  tell  him  what  was  on  his  tongue.  Garwood 
had  raised  the  glass,  but  with  it  at  his  lips  he 
stopped  and  looked  up  to  say: 

"What  in  hell's  the  matter  with  you,  Hale;  are 
you  drunk  or  crazy,  or  have  you  seen  a  ghost?" 

"I've  seen — Bailey." 

"Bailey!"  Garwood  slowly  lowered  the  glass  to 
the  desk,  as  if  Hale  had  seen  something  more  than 
a  ghost. 

"Yes." 

"Where?" 

"Out  on — what's  that  long  street?  He  was  with 
Rankin,  goin'  west." 

"Over  to  the  woolen  mills  ?"  Garwood  asked. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Hale.  "You  see,  after  Craw- 
ford and  I'd  got  a  bite  to  eat  over  at  that  restaurant 
on  the  other  side  of  the  square — what's  the  name 
of  it?" 

"Oh,  damn  the  name!"  exclaimed  Garwood. 
"Go  on." 

"Well,  anyways,  after  that  I  went  out  to  try  an* 
do  somethin',  but  about  all  I  could  do  was  to  hire 
'bout  half  a  dozen  hobos  who  were  goin'  through 
from  Chicago,  and  I  was  takin'  them  down  to  En- 


The   Final    Returns  459 

right  so's  he  could  vote  'em  at  all  the  prim'ries,  you 
know,  and  I  happened  to  look  up — and  there  I  see 
Bailey." 

"What  was  he  doing,  did  you  say?"  asked  Gar- 
wood with  the  morbid  fascination  the  recital  of 
some  painful  fact  has  for  the  one  it  most  concerns. 

"Oh,  he  was  just  mosey  in'  along  the  street  with 
Rankin,  you  know  that  slow,  splay-footed,  knock- 
kneed  way  he  has  of  walking,  don't  you?  Oh — 
there's  no  doubt  it's  him !" 

Garwood  slowly  swallowed  his  drink,  and  had 
just  turned  to  speak  again,  when  Pusey  entered. 

"Did  you  know  Bailey's  here?"  he  demanded. 

Pusey  walked  straight  to  the  desk,  and  he  had 
lifted  the  bottle  before  he  replied: 

"Yes." 

"When  did  you  hear?"  Garwood  asked. 

"Just  now.  I  repaired  here  instantly  to  apprise 
you." 

"You  did !"  said  Garwood.  "Well,  where  in  hell 
are  you  going  to  repair  to  next  to  do  something 
about  it  ?    Where  did  yon  see  him  ?" 

"I  saw  him  at  the  Cassell  House,  and  Rankin — " 

"Yes — Rankin,"  said  Garwood.  He  ceased  to 
give  attention  to  Pusey,  since  the  climax  of  his  tale 
was  already  too  fully  known,  but  repeated  Ran- 
kin's name  in  a  reminiscent  tone  not  likely  to  in- 
spire pleasure  in  the  breast  of  Rankin's  successor, 
as  if  one  should  sigh  for  a  first  wife  in  the  presence 
of  the  second.  "Jim  Rankin,"  he  repeated,  "that's 
the  worst  of  it." 


460  The  I  3  th  District 

"You  miss  Rankin,  heh?"  piped  Pusey,  squint- 
ing at  the  drink  he  was  pouring. 

Garwood  turned  on  him  then,  and  shouted 
angrily : 

"Yes,  damn  you,  I  do!  If  he  were  here  now  he'd 
have  a  suggestion  ;  he'd  have  some  resources.  What 
have  you  to  offer?" 

Pusey  hfted  the  glass  and  even  turned  deliber- 
ately to  hold  it  more  in  range  with  the  window,  so 
that  the  light  could  stream  through  it  and  bring  out 
the  rich,  warm  colors  of  the  liquor.  And  then,  care- 
fully tilting  the  drink  into  his  gullet,  he  put  the 
glass  down,  sucked  his  mustache  into  his  mouth 
to  get  the  last  lingering  taste  of  the  whisky,  and 
said: 

"Buy  him." 

"Who?"  said  Garwood. 

"Rankin." 

Garwood  took  an  impetuous  step  toward  Pusey, 
and  then  halting  suddenly  he  stared  at  him  in  utter 
amazement.  Hale  turned  on  the  little  editor  a  look 
no  less  startled,  but  quickly  glanced  around  at  Gar- 
wood to  see  what  he  would  do.  The  anger  that 
had  flushed  Garwood's  face  slowly  died  out  of  it, 
and  his  lips  began  to  curl  into  a  mordant  smile  that 
slowly  took  on  in  turn  the  qualities  of  contempt  and 
pity. 

"Pusey,"  he  said,  not  at  all  in  the  tone  that  Hale 
had  expected  to  hear  break  from  him,  "Pusey,"  he 
said,  "don't  be  foolish." 

"Foolish?"  repeated  Pusey  seriously.  "Is  it  so 
foolish,  think  you?" 


The   Final   Returns  461 

"Damnably  foolish,"  Garwood  replied. 

"Pardon  me,"  Pusey  said,  "you  evidently  misun- 
derstood me." 

"Misunderstood  you?  Didn't  you  suggest  buy- 
ing Jim  Rankin  ?    You  evidently  don't  know  men." 

"Did  I  say  Jim  Rankin?"  answered  Pusey.  "If 
I  did,  I  meant  Jim  Rankin's  men." 

"Oh,"  Garwood  and  Hale  exclaimed  together  in 
a  weak,  unconvinced  note.  Garwood  looked  at  Pu- 
sey more  charitably,  and  Pusey  returned  the  look 
by  one  of  subtlest  meaning.  Thus  they  stood 
and  gazed  at  each  other  for  a  whole  minute,  that 
seemed,  in  the  stillness  that  dripped  into  the  room, 
a  whole  age. 

It  was,  in  the  end.  Hale  who  spoke. 

"We'll  have  to  do  something,  turn  some  sort  of 
a  trick,  and  do  it  quick.  Zeph  Bailey  ain't  here 
for  nothing!" 

Hale  had  drawn  his  watch  from  his  pocket. 

"What  time  is  it?"  Garwood  asked. 

Hale  looked  at  his  watch  again. 

"Two-thirty,"  he  replied.  He  had  once  been  a 
railroader. 

"The  bank  closes  at  four,"  said  Garwood.  He 
began  slowly  and  hesitatingly  to  button  his  waist- 
coat, and  as  though  to  occupy  some  irresolute  mo- 
ment that  awaited  the  formation  of  big  issues,  he 
poured  himself  another  drink,  and  gulped  it,  mak- 
ing a  wry  face.  Another  moment  passed  while  the 
two  men  stood  narrowly  watching  him. 

"The  polls  close  at  seven,  don't  they?"  he  asked. 


462  The  13  th   District 

"Don't  know  but  they  do,"  replied  Pusey. 
Then  Garwood,  with  the  firmness  of  a  final  de- 
cision, put  his  hat  on  his  head. 
"You  wait  here,"  he  said. 
Then  he  bolted  from  the  room. 


X 


THE  old  ramshackle  hack  that  had  made  its 
stand  in  front  of  the  Cassell  House  so  long 
that  it  had  acquired  the  status  of  a  local 
institution,  was  tearing  furiously  out  Sangamon 
Avenue.  The  appearance  of  this  ancient  vehicle 
outside  its  proper  habitat,  usually  betokened  some 
emergency;  and  when  Emily,  with  an  ear  keen 
for  omens  that  day,  heard  the  rattle  of  its  rheu- 
matic joints  far  down  the  street,  and  when  she  saw 
it  verify  her  impression  of  disaster  by  turning  in 
at  the  carriage  gate  and  rolling  up  under  the  drip- 
ping trees,  she  flew  to  the  door  with  her  face  as 
white  as  if  she  had  seen  a  messenger  boy  coming 
with  a  telegram. 

When  she  saw  the  door  of  the  hack  burst  open 
before  the  hack  itself  could  come  to  a  stop,  and 
Jerome  imperil  his  bones  by  leaping  out  between 
its  wheels,  she  was  relieved  to  have  him  whole  and 
sound  before  her  eyes,  for  she  had  half  expected 
to  see  his  Hmp  form  borne  in  by  careful  attendants. 
Her  fears  were  partly  realized  when  she  saw  his 
gray  face  and  the  blue  circles  that  lay  under  his 
eyes,  and  they  were  expressed  in  the  breathless 
voice  in  which  she  exclaimed,  as  he  leaped  up  the 
steps : 

"Jerome!   What  is  it!" 

"Come  in  here — quick,"  he  said.  She  followed 
463 


464  The  13th   District 

him  at  speed,  imploring  him  to  confess  that  he  was 
ill.  He  did  not  answer,  but  led  the  way  in  hot 
haste  to  the  sitting  room,  and  then  across  that  to 
Emily's  little  writing  desk,  which  stood  open  in  the 
bay  window.  She  watched  him  in  wonderment  as  he 
fumbled  in  the  breast  of  his  coat  and  produced  at 
last  a  paper,  which,  rustling  forth,  he  spread  before 
her  on  the  desk.  Then  he  seized  a  pen,  plunged 
it  in  the  ink,  and  pushing  her  into  the  chair  he  had 
dragged  up  to  the  desk,  he  said: 

"Here  Em — sign  this — quick  !" 

She  looked  at  him  in  amazement  that  each  mo- 
ment widened  her  eyes  the  more;  looked  at  him 
and  then  looked  at  the  paper  he  held  to  the  leaf  of 
her  desk  with  a  trembling  finger.  She  took  the 
pen  mechanically. 

"Here,"  he  said,  jerking  out  his  words ;  "right 
there — under  my  name.    You're  to  sign  with  me." 

She  noted  the  blaze  in  his  eyes ;  the  odor  of  to- 
bacco and  liquor  he  exhaled  oppressed  her ;  she 
looked  from  him  to  the  paper  on  the  desk,  then  back 
to  him  again.    In  her  bewilderment  she  gasped : 

"Why— what  is  it  for?" 

"Oh,  it's  a  note !"  he  said,  crossly,  while  his 
brows  gathered  in  his  impatience.  "Sign  it,  quick! 
I  haven't  a  minute  to  lose !  I'll  explain  it  to  you 
afterward." 

She  looked  again  into  his  brilliant  eyes,  she  felt 
his  tainted  breath  upon  her  face,  then  something  of 
his  own  fever  of  haste  caused  her  heart  to  leap,  and 
she  put  her  name  to  the  note  below  where  Jerome 
had  scrawled  his  own.    Garwood  snatched  up  the 


The   Final   Returns  465 

note  and  thrust  it  back  in  his  pocket.  Then  he 
turned  to  go.    But  Emily  arose  and  caught  at  him. 

"Jerome!  Dear!  What  is  it!  What  has  hap- 
pened? What  is  it  for?" 

The  tumult  of  his  troubled  soul  broke  forth  and 
he  poured  it  out  upon  her. 

"It's  for  money — money — money !"  he  cried,  and 
he  smote  the  unstable  little  desk  with  his  fist,  mak- 
ing it  rock.  "What  is  everything  for  in  these 
days !"  His  breath  came  hard  and  fast,  the  blue 
crescents  in  which  his  eyes  burned  deepened  per- 
ceptibly, and  his  eyes  flamed  as  if  all  the  fires  of  all 
excitement  were  about  to  leap  out.  In  his  cheeks, 
now  of  an  unusual  pallor,  two  red  spots  glowed. 

"But  what  is  the  money  for?"  she  persisted,  still 
clinging  to  him  as  he  backed  away  from  her.  "Tell 
me — won't  you?" 

"It's  for  votes — votes — votes !  Votes  that  I  need 
more  to-day  than  I  ever  needed  them !" 

"Oh,  Jerome !"  she  cried.  "Don't — don't  say  that, 
don't  talk  that  way !  Wait — wait,  dear,  sit  down 
until  you're  calmer." 

"Calmer!"  he  roared.  "Calmer!  With  all  my 
enemies  at  my  heels?" 

"But,  dear,  I  don't  like  the  sound  of  that.  It 
would  be  better  if  you  were  beaten  honorably." 

"Honorably!"  he  sneered.  "Honorably!  Do  you 
know  what  it  would  mean  to  me  to  be  beaten  now  ? 
Do  you  know  what  it  would  mean  to  youf  Do  you 
want  to  go  to  the  poor-house?" 

He  stopped  in  his  mad  rush  of  words  and  flung 
out  his  jaw  at  her  pugnaciously. 


466  The  i3th  District 

Emily  stood  trying  to  hold  her  husband's  wild, 
unsteady  eyes  in  her  own  gaze  for  a  moment. 

"Why,  Jerome,"  she  said  in  low,  even  accents, 
"it  would  be  as  bad  as — as — as  that  story  they  told 
of  you  in  your  first  campaign !" 

His  face  without  relaxing  took  on  the  mockery 
of  a  smile,  then  he  laughed  harshly.  The  tone  of 
the  laugh  shuddered  through  Emily.  She  had  re- 
leased her  hold  on  him,  and  now  she  took  a  step 
backward.  Her  lips  were  parted  and  at  last  she 
spoke,  her  words  coming  reluctantly  from  her 
throat.  It  was  scarcely  above  a  whisper  that  she 
said: 

"Was  that  all— true?" 

She  saw  the  conviction  in  his  eyes  before  it  came 
to  its  verification  on  his  lips.  He  laughed  again, 
the  same  harsh  laugh  as  before. 

"True!"  he  cried.  "Of  course  it  was  true,  you 
poor  little  fool !" 

The  words  brought  a  cry  from  her,  and,  clasping 
her  hands  before  her  face,  she  turned  and  sank  into 
the  chair  and  put  her  head  down  on  the  desk. 

Garwood  stared  at  her  awhile,  then  took  a  step 
toward  her.  He  drew  nearer  and  bent  over  her, 
tried  to  draw  her  at  last  up  into  his  arms. 

"Emily!"  he  said.  "Don't— it's  all— I  was— I 
was — crazy — " 

Her  head  shook  slowly  from  side  to  side. 

"Go  away,"  she  said.  "Go  away — oh,  please  go 
away!" 

She  burst  into  tears,  and  relinquishing  his  hold 


The   Final    Returns  467 

of  her  he  drew  himself  up,  swayed  an  instant,  stead- 
ied himself  by  the  desk,  and  then  said : 

"All  right,  then,  I'll  go." 

And  he  left  the  room  and  the  house,  trying  to 
reclaim  his  dignity  with  the  erectness  with  which  he 
took  his  careful  steps  down  from  the  veranda  and 
to  the  waiting  carriage.  Then  Emily  heard  the 
hack  roll  away. 


XI 


EMILY  leaned  at  evening  against  the  case- 
ment of  the  western  window  in  her  room 
upstairs.  The  rain  had  ceased,  and  though 
the  clouds  were  still  as  gray  and  cold  as  stone,  the 
air  was  becoming  luminous,  and  from  somewhere 
had  received  a  new  inspiration,  fresh  and  pure  and 
light.  As  she  gazed  listlessly  away  across  the 
vacant  lots  that  lay  beyond  her  home,  she  saw, 
along  the  rounded  tree  tops  and  the  chimneyed 
roofs  that  made  for  her  the  western  sky  line,  that 
the  blanket  of  cloud  was  slowly  rolling  back  upon 
itself,  until  at  last  it  revealed  a  long,  thin  strip  of 
open  sky,  clear  and  blue  as  some  remembered 
stretch  of  summer  sea.  In  the  middle  of  this,  far 
over  on  the  west  side  of  the  town,  the  low  square 
tower,  built  like  an  ItaHan  belvedere  on  the  Ursu- 
line  Sisters'  Convent,  was  silhouetted,  and  below 
and  all  around,  the  masses  of  foliage  became  vivid 
green  in  the  new  light  that  fell  upon  them. 

As  all  the  world  about  shrank  in  the  shades 
of  the  coming  night,  the  clouds  deepened  to  a 
purple,  and  in  the  slow  and  silent  changes  that 
went  constantly  forward,  their  edges  above  were 
softly  tinged  with  ashes  of  roses,  while  below,  the 
reflected  green  of  the  trees  changed  their  drab 
to  pink.  Then  there  was  traced  for  her  a  long, 
wavy  thread  of  glistening  silver,  the  billowed  top 


The   Final    Returns  469 

of  some  white  cloud  floating  deep  in  the  illimitable 
distances  behind  that  opening  in  the  sky.  And  then 
suddenly,  the  sun  sinking  into  this  proscenium 
illumined  its  infinite  and  glorious  vistas  with  a  flood 
of  golden  light. 

But  it  was  all  subconsciously  that  this  woman 
followed  the  varying  shades  and  tones  of  color  in 
the  sunset  of  grays  and  golds,  and  if  by  a  strangely 
divided  intelligence  she  noted  the  physical  changes 
that  were  being  wrought  in  the  world  outside  her, 
her  thoughts  within  surged  in  a  great  ocean  of  feel- 
ing against  the  cold  and  desolate  shore  that  now 
bounded  life  for  her.  Otherwise,  as  she  stood 
there  at  the  close  of  this  fateful  day,  and  saw  the 
gold  grow  brighter  and  the  pink  deepen  to  crim- 
son, she  might  easily  have  worked  out  a  poetic 
analogy  between  that  little  sunset,  with  the  convent 
tower  to  give  it  gloom,  and  her  own  life ;  she  would 
have  done  so  once,  and  found  a  sweet  exquisite  sad- 
ness in  it,  but  now — a  grief  at  last  had  come  to  her 
too  real  and  too  tragic  in  its  great  reality  for  any 
such  romanticism,  a  grief  that  sounded  deeper  than 
any  tears. 

Other  griefs  could  be  borne;  they  could  be 
voiced;  they  could  find  comfort  in  the  ministra- 
tions of  sympathetic  friends,  in  the  consolations  of 
religion;  more  than  all  in  the  healing  balm  that 
nature  stores  in  the  woods  and  fields.  But  here 
was  a  grief  that  was  the  more  intense  because  she 
had  so  long  dreaded  it,  known  it  even,  though  she 
had  fought  the  recognition  off,  and  never  admitted 
it  to  herself  before.     She  saw  all  that  now,  and  it 


470  The  i3th  District 

made  clear  so  many  little  passages  in  her  later  life; 
passages  that  had  been  dark  to  her,  and  filled  with 
vague  troubles. 

Here  was  a  grief  that  was  no  new  thing,  but 
an  old  thing,  that  had  been  there  all  the  time, 
like  some  fatal  disease;  she  had  felt  its  pains 
and  it  had  put  its  restraints  and  its  limitations  and 
its  renunciations  upon  her;  now  it  had  been  cor- 
rectly diagnosed  at  last,  that  was  all;  and  it  could 
not  be  changed,  nor  cured,  nor  alleviated  even;  but 
she  must  bear  it  alone  and  in  silence,  walking 
straight-lipped  and  dry-eyed  the  long  way  that 
stretched  before. 

In  some  such  mode  as  this  her  thoughts  had  been 
rushing  on  ever  since  that  moment  downstairs  in 
the  afternoon  when  the  whole  truth  had  been  at 
last  revealed  to  her.  She  had  thought  it  out  along 
every  line  she  could  trace ;  she  had  analyzed  and 
synthesized ;  she  had  viewed  it  from  every  possible 
standpoint;  she  had  built  up  elaborate  schemes  of 
repair,  of  rehabilitation;  she  had  planned  a  new  life 
to  be  begun  when  the  wreck  of  the  old  had  been 
cleared  away  by  forgiveness  and  new  resolve ;  but 
in  the  end,  it  had  all  come  to  the  same  remorseless 
conviction — her  faith  had  been  destroyed,  it  lay 
dead  at  her  feet;  nothing  could  ever  change  that 
fact  any  more. 

The  colors  were  slowly  dying  out  of  the  narrow 
strip  of  sky  along  the  horizon  and  it  had  become 
opalescent  and  serene  with  evening.  A  new  life 
seemed  suddenly  to  awake  in  the  world  below  her. 
A  robin,  that  should  have  been  in  bed,  went  spring- 


The   Final   Returns  471 

ing  across  the  yard,  swelling  its  red  breast,  and 
Emily  was  vaguely  conscious  of  wondering  if  it 
were  the  one  she  had  heard  that  afternoon  singing 
in  the  rain.  Something  moved  her  to  raise  the  win- 
dow, something  in  the  new  and  vital  pulse  that 
thrilled  the  world. 

With  the  inrushing  air  came  the  sickening  odor 
of  the  late-flowering  locust  tree,  and  there  were 
borne  to  her  as  well  the  gentle  sounds  of  evening, 
the  endless  trilling  of  insects  in  the  wet  grass;  the 
lowing  of  a  cow;  by  and  by  the  belated  crow  of 
some  rooster.  The  world  was  alive  and  awake; 
it  seemed  to  be  stretching  itself  after  its  long 
prostration  in  the  rain,  and  now  it  enjoyed  this 
breath  of  keen  air  before  it  went  to  sleep,  impa- 
tient for  the  hopeful  morning  when  it  might  take 
up  once  more  its  glad  ambitious  life.  But  for  her 
— so  Emily's  thoughts  ran — there  was  no  hope  and 
no  to-morrow. 

The  sun  had  trailed  the  last  of  his  splendors 
across  that  narrow  opening  in  the  sky.  The  opal- 
escence swam  into  a  new  sea  of  silver,  then  sud- 
denly a  bar  of  yellow  broke  it,  there  was  a  rush  of 
violet,  then  purple  shadows  dissolved  the  convent 
tower  and  the  sky  closed,  cold  and  dark  and  still. 
'And  there  came  into  Emily's  mind  the  lines : 

"Life's   night  begins :  let  him    never    come    back 
to  us ! 
There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer  of  twi- 
light, 
Never  glad  confident  morning  again!" 


472  The  13  th  District 

She  closed  her  window  and  turned  wearily  away. 
She  had  her  duties,  her  Httle  duties;  John  Ethan 
was  calling,  and  the  supper  was  to  be  laid;  life 
somehow  after  all  must  be  lived. 

She  was  going  down  the  stairs,  when  suddenly 
from  the  little  habits  of  existence  that  persist  some- 
times ludicrously,  sometimes  irritatingly,  some- 
times comfortingly,  even  in  the  most  tragic  mo- 
ments of  life,  she  thought  of  the  evening  papers 
lying  at  that  moment  damp  and  limp  against  the 
front  door.  The  primaries — she  stopped  and  stead- 
ied herself  by  the  baluster — what  had  been  the  re- 
sult of  the  primaries?  She  shook  her  head  impa- 
tiently for  thinking  of  them  in  that  moment.  What 
were  primaries  to  her  now?  And  yet — would  he 
win? 

She  went  on  down  the  stairs,  she  found  the  pa- 
pers, and  now  when  the  truth  could  no  longer  be 
hidden,  or  distorted  to  any  one's  advantage,  they 
printed  the  truth  at  last — none  could  tell  the  result 
at  that  hour ;  it  was  the  hardest  political  battle  ever 
waged  in  Polk  County,  and  on  it  hung  the  political 
future  of  Jerome  B.  Garwood, 

Something  of  the  old  excitement  came  back  to 
her  for  a  moment.  He  was  there  in  the  thick  of  it, 
fighting  hard ;  he  was  desperate ;  he  had  risked  all 
again  for  that  political  future — she  stopped  herself 
with  a  gasp — if,  indeed,  his  future  alone  were  all 
that  was  involved !  To  her  it  was  his  past  that  was 
involved ;  his  past  that  meant  more  than  all  to  her 
now.  He  had,  indeed,  risked  all  upon  this  battle, 
and  all  had  been  lost  before  the  battle  was  begun ! 


The    Final    Returns  473 

She  ate  her  lonely  supper,  she  put  her  babies  to 
bed,  she  prolonged  all  her  evening  duties  that  they 
might  fill  up  her  thoughts  and  the  slow  hours.  Each 
sound,  each  foot-fall  on  the  sidewalk  startled  her, 
and  yet  no  one  came.  The  evening  passed.  At 
last  she  went  to  bed,  but  all  the  noises  of  the  night 
alarmed  her,  and  in  the  darkness  the  burden  of  her 
thoughts  became  insupportable. 

At  last  she  got  up  and  went  to  the  window  that 
gave  a  view  of  Sangamon  Avenue  and  stood  there 
watching  and  listening.  She  went  back  to  bed, 
but  sleep  was  far  from  her  that  night  and  time  and 
time  again  she  rose  and  went  to  her  window.  Fi- 
nally, she  wrapped  herself  in  a  shawl  and  huddled 
on  the  floor  at  the  low  sill,  and  still  watched  and 
listened.  The  night  went  by,  hour  after  hour. 
Now  and  then  she  heard  the  baby  sighing  in  his 
sleep — the  poor  little  baby — and  she  straightened 
up,  a  dim,  rigid,  attentive  figure  there  in  the  dark- 
ness. Once  when  the  elder  child  awoke,  sleepily 
calling  for  a  drink,  she  went  to  him,  but  she  could 
not  stay;  she  came  back  again  and  resumed  her 
lonely  vigil. 

And  still  the  hours  went  by.  The  low  night 
brooded  over  the  slumbering  town.  Far  down  that 
black  and  silent  street,  its  shapes  distorted  and  un- 
familiar in  the  shadows,  she  knew  that  his  fate  had 
been  decided.  The  early  hours  of  the  morning 
brought  their  chill,  and  she  shrugged  herself  more 
closely  in  her  shawl,  clutched  it  more  tightly  to  her 
breast.  And  there  in  the  window,  alone,  she 
watched  and  waited  while  the  night  grew  old  and 
waned. 


XII 


THE  crowd  of  men  that  filled  Chris  Steisfloss's 
saloon  were  not  reckoning  the  time  that 
night.  They  pressed,  as  many  of  them  as 
could,  against  the  bar,  and  those  who  were  huddled 
behind  this  front  rank  stretched  their  arms  between 
the  brushing  shoulders  for  the  glasses  that  Chris 
himself  and  his  bartender,  both  on  duty,  made 
haste  to  fill  each  time  some  voice  shouted  an 
order  for  drink.  The  long  bar-room  was  stifling, 
and  the  gas  jets  flared  sickly,  uncertainly,  in  their 
efiforts  to  keep  alive  in  an  atmosphere  from  which 
the  oxygen  was  so  quickly  exhausted. 

Above  the  tilted  hats  of  the  gathering  a  cloud  of 
smoke  drifted  in  thin,  gray  currents  along  the  low 
ceiling,  following  the  drafts  that  puffed  aimlessly 
whenever  the  outer  door  opened,  and  let  the  cool 
night  air  rush  in  with  its  sane  and  sanitary  fresh- 
ness. Over  all,  as  though  a  part  of  the  low  hanging 
cloud  of  smoke,  as  though  an  element  of  the  fecu- 
lent atmosphere,  hung  almost  palpably  the  mass  of 
oaths  and  epithets,  disjointed  words  and  empty 
phrases  that  were  poured  out  in  a  mad  debacle  by 
all  those  excited  voices.  To  this  were  added  the 
scrape  and  shuffle  of  boots,  moving  unsteadily  on 
the  floor,  and  the  click  of  glasses  as  these  men 
pledged  anew  a  cause  which  by  all  the  defiance  of 
their  angry  tones  was  evidently  lost. 
474 


The   Final    Returns  475 

In  the  midst  of  them  all,  with  his  broad  back 
leaning  against  the  rail  that  guarded  the  bar,  was 
Garwood  himself.  His  rumpled  shirt  was  open  at 
the  throat,  his  cravat  was  gone,  his  soiled  cuffs  had 
come  unlinked  and  he  fittingly  portrayed  in  his 
whole  appearance  the  utter  rout  and  demoralization 
which  had  that  day  overtaken  his  political  faction. 
His  eyes  blazed  now  with  the  confused  emotions 
that  ran  riot  in  his  soul,  and  now  they  lost  all  their 
luster  and  seemed  to  be  set  in  a  filmy  stare,  until 
their  swollen  lids  fell  heavily  over  them,  to  be 
raised  again  only  by  an  effort. 

He  had  laid  his  hat  down  on  the  bar,  where  its 
brim,  flattening  to  the  walnut  surface,  was  soaking 
up  the  liquor  that  had  been  spilled  from  an  over- 
turned glass.  In  a  strange  whim  of  his  disordered 
mind  he  had  commanded  every  one  to  let  the  hat 
lie  where  it  was,  and  they  had  all  obeyed,  with  the 
seriousness  of  drinking  men.  And  there  it  reposed, 
all  its  grace  and  expression  gone,  strangely  typi- 
fying the  wreck  of  its  wearer's  fortunes. 

As  Garwood  stood  there,  his  black  hair  matted 
to  his  brow,  his  cheeks  and  chin  blue  with  a  long 
day's  growth  of  the  stubble  of  his  beard,  he  sud- 
denly flung  over  his  shoulder  a  peremptory  order 
to  Steisfloss  to  fill  the  glasses  again,  and  when  the 
saloon  keeper  pushed  the  tall  bottle  toward  him,  he 
turned  half  around  and  splashed  a  drink  out  of  it 
with  an  unsteady  hand.  Then  holding  the  little 
tumbler  in  a  precarious  grasp,  he  faced  about  again 
and  with  elbows  resting  on  the  bar  behind  him,  he 
broke  forth  in  a  thick  voice: 


476  The  i3th   District 

"Don't  you  think  I'm  beaten!  Don't  you  think 
it,  I  tell  you!  I  may  be  beaten  iiozv,  you  under- 
stand, but  I'm  not  beaten!  No,  sir!  I've  only 
begun,  I  tell  you,  I've  only  begun.  They  can  keep 
me  off  the  delegation,  v^hat  do  /  care?  I'll  be  at 
Springfield  just  the  same.  They  can  send  that 
Singed  Cat  to  Congress  if  they  want  to,  what  do  I 
care  ?  Jim  Rankin — ^Jim  Rankin — who's  he  ?  I'll  lick 
'em,  I'll  lick  'em  all,  every  one,  yet.  You'll  see,  you 
wait  and  see.  You  hear  me?  You  wait  and  see.  I'll 
lick  'em  all,  every  one,  yet.  I'll  drive  'em  out  of  the 
district,  I'll  drive  'em  out  of  the  state,  from  the 
Wabash  on  the  east  to  the  Mississippi  on  the  west, 
from  Dunleith  to  Cairo.  I'll  set  the  buffalo  grass 
on  fire  and  sweep  the  state  clean  of  them.  You  will 
not  find  one  of  them  o'er  all  the  rolling  prairies  of 
Illinois." 

As  he  rolled  out  the  word  'Tllinois,"  in  the  tone 
the  orators  of  that  state  use  when  they  wish  to  show 
their  state  pride,  he  swung  his  arm  in  an  all-em- 
bracing circle,  and  his  auditors  dodged  the  slop- 
ping whisky. 

Then  he  stood  and  blinked  at  them. 
"Why  don't  you  fellows  drink?"  he  broke  forth 
again.  "What  do  you  want  to  stand  around  that 
way  for?  What  are  you  afraid  of?  Jim  Rankin? 
Think  I'm  licked,  do  you?  Think  I'm  dead  politi- 
cally, do  you?  Well,  I'll  show  'em,  I'll  show  'em  all. 
Why  don't  you  drink,  Pusey;  why  don't  you  drink 
up?  Think  I  ain't  got  any  money  ?  Well,  I'll  show 
you — Chris  here  knows  me.  I'll  show  you — " 
He  fumbled  in  his  pockets,  produced  a  crumpled 


The   Final    Returns         477 

mass  of  green  bills,  and  held  them  forth  in  his 
fist. 

"I  tell  you  there  isn't  room  for  them  and  me 
on  all  the  broad  expanse  of  Illinois — " 

Some  one  struck  up  a  favorite  song  of  the  cam- 
paign platforms: 

"  Not  without  thy  wondrous  story, 

Illinois,  Illinois ; 
Shall  be  writ  the  nation's  glory, 

Illinois,  Illinois ; 
In  the  record  of  the  years, 
Abr'ham  Lincoln's  name  appears, 
Grant  and  Logan — and  our  tears, 

Illinois,  Illinois." 

The  crowd  huddled  more  closely  together,  and 
with  heavy  voices  joined  in  the  song.  Some  of  the 
men,  with  serio-comical  expressions,  essayed  the 
tenor,  others  the  bass,  though  the  bass  predom- 
inated, and  they  sang  over  and  over  the  few  words 
of  the  song  they  could  remember. 

During  this  maudlin  exhibition,  the  door  opened, 
and  Rankin,  with  Bailey  by  his  side,  entered.  Ran- 
kin was  bespattered  from  hat  to  heel,  even  his  face 
was  freckled  with  the  little  spots  where  the  viscous 
mud  had  dried.  His  huge  body  was  flaccid  with 
fatigue,  and  his  appearance  was  enough  to  show 
hovv^  heavily  he  had  toiled  at  the  polls  that  day  in 
his  determination  to  defeat  Garwood.  Bailey 
showed  no  sign  of  the  equally  hard  day  he  had 
spent.  He  walked  with  the  same  awkward,  sham- 
bling gait,  his  little  eyes  looked  out  from  their  nar- 
rowed lids  and  roved  about  him  with  their  custo- 


478  The  i3th   District 

mary  cunning.  He  showed  neither  signs  of  ex- 
haustion, though  he  always  looked  tired,  nor  of  the 
elation  that  probably  was  in  his  breast  at  the  great 
victory  which  that  day  had  been  his. 

Rankin,  when  he  saw  the  crowd  with  Garwood 
as  its  center,  halted  suddenly  and  jerked  his  hat 
down  over  his  eyes.  He  drew  Bailey  hurriedly  to 
the  bar  near  the  mirrored  partition  that  screened 
the  scene  within  from  the  street  without,  and  made 
a  sign  to  Steisfloss.  The  saloon  keeper,  with  an 
alert  appreciation  of  the  situation  which  his  long 
experience  with  men  in  their  cups  had  taught  him, 
silently  moved  that  way,  and  bent  a  listening  ear 
toward  the  newcomers. 

"Give  us  a  little  drink — an'  hurry.  We'll  get 
out — don't  let  him  see,"  said  Rankin. 

Steisfloss's  heavy  German  face  showed  none  of 
the  gratitude  he  felt,  and  quietly,  almost  surrepti- 
tiously, he  set  glasses  and  bottle  before  the  suc- 
cessful candidate  at  that  day's  primaries  and  the 
man  who  had  brought  his  success  to  pass. 

Before  they  could  take  their  liquor,  some  one  at 
the  edge  of  the  crowd  near  Rankin  noticed  him. 
Rankin's  quick  eye  detected  the  recognition,  and  he 
pulled  the  fellow  toward  him. 

"Sh!"  he  whispered.  "Don't  let  him  see  us.  I 
didn't  know  he's  here,  or  we'd  not  come  in.  We'll 
duck.    How  long's  he  been  in  here?" 

"Oh,"  said  the  man,  "ever  since  he  got  that  last 
news  from  the  First  Ward." 

Rankin  could  not  restrain  the  gleam  of  pleasure 
that  shot  from  his  eye  at  the  memory  of  that  tri- 
umph, but  the  gleam  softened  as  he  stole  a  look  at 


The   Final    Returns  479 

Garwood,  and  then,  at  last,  died  quite  away,  and 
there  came  in  its  stead  an  expression  of  pain  and 
pity. 

'Toor  Jerry !"  he  said,  "I  thought  he's  a  little  off 
when  he  came — "  he  checked  himself,  and  then — 
"when  I  saw  him  this  afternoon,"  he  continued. 

He  looked  at  him  for  another  moment,  and  then 
he  said,  angrily,  to  the  man  whom  all  the  time  he 
kept  between  him  and  the  crowd : 

"Why  don't  some  o'  you  fellers  get  him  out  o* 
here?  What  do  you  want  to  let  him  disgrace  him- 
self that-away  fer?" 

The  man  looked  at  Rankin  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders  to  tell  how  helpless  they  all  were. 

"We've  tried,"  he  said.  He  looked  around  to- 
ward Garwood,  who,  having  concluded  another 
speech,  was  tipping  his  glass  into  his  mouth,  his 
head  toppling  on  his  neck  as  he  did  so.  The  man 
turned  back  again  to  Rankin,  still  with  that  help- 
less look,  but,  suddenly,  with  a  flash  of  the  eye  as 
if  a  new  thought  had  just  come  to  him,  he  said : 

"You  try,  Jim ;  you  could  do  it.  He  thinks  more 
of  you  to-day  than  of  all  the  rest  put  together." 

Rankin  faced  the  bar  and  hastily  swallowed  his 
bourbon. 

"No,"  he  said ;  "that's  past." 

And  then  he  and  Bailey  slipped  away. 

"Poor  Jerry!"  sighed  Rankin,  as  they  went  out 
the  door. 

But  the  Singed  Cat,  whose  personality  was  des- 
tined so  soon  to  become  the  passion  of  the  cartoon- 
ists, turned  and  cast  back  at  his  defeated  rival  one 
of  those  glances  from  his  unsearchable  little  eyes. 


XIII 


AT  the  close  of  a  day  late  in  November  Emily 
Garwood  came  down  the  walk  from  the  old 
house  that  had  been  her  home  so  long,  and 
at  the  gate  paused  for  a  backward  glance  of  fare- 
well. The  oaks  under  which  for  so  many  years  she 
had  watched  the  coming  and  going  of  all  she  loved, 
were  barren,  save  for  the  few  bronzed  leaves  that 
clung  with  the  tenacity  of  their  species  to  the 
gnarled  boughs.  Other  leaves,  withered  and  yel- 
low, that  had  succumbed  to  the  common  fate  of 
things,  strewed  the  ground  everywhere.  Here  and 
there  they  had  been  pressed  into  wet  mats  by  the 
cold  autumnal  rains ;  otherwise  they  rustled  with 
the  wind  that  ranged  through  the  wide  yard. 

The  night  was  falling  swiftly,  the  darkness  in- 
creasing by  visible  degrees  as  if  with  the  gradual 
closing  of  some  automatic  shutter  that  was  ulti- 
mately to  exclude  the  light.  Black  shadows  rose 
unexpectedly  from  the  ground  and  silently  enfolded 
objects  Emily  had  known  so  long  that  they  had 
become  a  part  of  her  very  life,  so  intimately  as- 
sociated with  all  its  experiences  that  she  realized 
her  own  affection  for  them  but  now,  when  she  was 
leaving  them.  The  old  home,  to  her  sensitive  im- 
agination, seemed  to  regard  her  out  of  its  vacant, 
lifeless  windows  with  a  cold  and  distant  stare,  as  if 
already  it  had  begun  to  forget  her. 
480 


The   Final   Returns  481 

And  so  she  closed  the  gate  softly,  as  if  the  clash 
of  its  latch  might  arouse  memories  that  were 
making  ready  to  pursue  her  out  of  the  old  home- 
stead, drew  more  snugly  into  the  hollow  of  her 
arm  the  bundle  of  odds  and  ends  she  had  gath- 
ered up  in  her  final  inspection  of  its  dismantled 
rooms,  and  hurried  away  along  Sangamon  Avenue. 
The  atmosphere  held  in  suspension  many  more 
autumnal  rains,  with  such  a  chill  besides  that  her 
little  figure  seemed  to  shrink  with  the  cold,  as  it 
dissolved  in  the  shadows  and  disappeared. 

The  day  of  the  primaries  had  marked  the  fall 
of  the  last  of  Emily's  ideals,  and  she  felt,  with  her 
old  habit  of  fixing  a  formal  duty  for  every  occasion 
that  she  must  recognize  the  change  by  some  defi- 
nite, decisive  act.  But  as  she  gradually  revolved  the 
problem  life  had  set  for  her,  and  one  after  another 
weighed  all  the  common  solutions  that  men  and 
women  consider  at  such  times — perhaps  because  of 
sheer  inability  to  grapple  with  such  monstrous  spir- 
itual difficulties — she  shrank  from  them,  finding 
them  all  so  sordid,  so  squalid,  so  inadequate  to  a 
nature  like  hers.  And  so  she  lived  on  from  day  to 
day,  trying  to  reason  it  out,  and  failing  in  that, 
awaiting  the  next  scene  in  her  domestic  tragedy. 

But  nothing  happened.  Life  went  on  somehow 
as  before.  If  at  times  she  reproached  herself  with 
what  seemed  her  indecision,  she  strove  with  all 
conscience  to  perform  the  little  duties  of  each  day, 
until  the  great  duty  could  be  revealed  clearly  to  her, 
yet  self-consciously  wondering  how  it  was  that  she 
could  think  of  common  things,  and  do  common 


482  The  13  th  District 

things,  just  as  she  had  wondered,  at  the  time  her 
father  died,  how  it  was,  for  instance,  that  she  could 
leave  the  solemn  twilight  of  the  chamber  where  she 
had  just  witnessed  the  mystery  of  death,  and 
straightway  go  and  eat  her  supper.  She  did  not  see 
that  her  spirit  was  thus  unconsciously  struggling  to 
reassert  itself;  to  identify  itself  anew  with  the  com- 
mon, the  real ;  to  be  like  all  else  about  it,  for  it  had 
not  yet  been  given  her  to  appreciate  the  love  for  the 
normal,  the  abhorrence  of  the  exceptional,  the  pas- 
sion for  equality  that  nature  reveals  in  her  deal- 
ings with  her  children. 

She  was  convinced  that  she  must  have  some  kind 
of  reckoning  with  Jerome;  something  in  a  way 
forensic  and  legal,  with  all  the  conventional  ele- 
ments of  trial,  judgment  and  retribution  or  forgive- 
ness ;  at  times  she  even  dramatized  the  forms  and 
terms  of  this  proceeding,  which  would  atone  for  the 
past,  and  leave  them  where  they  had  been  before. 
But  the  auspicious  moment  never  presented  itself; 
she  realized  at  last  that  it  could  not  come ;  that  the 
old  ground  had  been  lost,  and  lost  forever;  that 
there  could  be  nothing  like  resumption;  that  they 
must  begin,  if  at  all,  anew. 

And  so  the  summer  had  passed.  She  watched 
Jerome  narrowly,  noting  every  change  in  humor, 
in  whim,  in  expression,  thinking  it  possible  that  he 
might  broach  the  subject  that  lay  so  near  the  hearts 
of  both.  At  first,  in  a  remorse  that  was  evident, 
he  had  been  showing  for  her  a  new  consideration ; 
a  furtive  consideration  that  was  likely  to  exagger- 
ate its  tenderness  at  times.    He  had  sent  her  flowers 


The   Final   Returns  483 

and  brought  her  candy,  Hke  a  lover,  and  if  these 
silent  appeals — while  they  touched  her — did  not  al- 
together reassure  her,  they  must  abundantly  have 
reassured  him,  for  in  the  course  of  weeks  he  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  all  save  his  own  defeat.  One 
afternoon  he  had  come  home,  silent  and  preoccu- 
pied, and  had  moodily  chosen  to  sit  alone,  staring 
out  the  window,  though  seemingly  oblivious  to  the 
wonder  and  beauty  of  the  October  day,  dying,  like 
the  year,  in  serene  and  majestic  dignity.  His  im- 
movable figure,  there  in  the  gloom,  gradually  op- 
pressed her,  got  on  her  nerves,  and  at  last  drew 
her  irresistibly  into  the  room  where  he  was.  She 
sat  down  quietly,  without  disturbing  him,  in  the 
hope  that  he  would  speak.  She  looked  at  him  long, 
but  he  did  not  speak,  he  did  not  move.  Finally  this 
attitude  became  insupportable,  and  she  at  length 
broke  the  stillness. 

"What  is  it,  Jerome?"  she  asked. 

*'What?"  he  said. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing  is  the  matter/'  he  answered  in  an  ag- 
grieved tone  that  altogether  belied  his  words. 

"But  there  is,"  she  insisted,  quite  in  the  old  way. 
"You  are  blue." 

He  was  silent  a  moment  longer,  in  an  ugly  re- 
luctance to  speak,  and  then, 

"Well,"  he  said,  savagely,  "debts,  if  you  want 
to  know." 

She  sighed.  The  old  sordid  struggle  after  all ! 
He  waited  awhile  longer,  desiring  her  to  coax  him 


484  The  13  th  District 

out  of  his  mood,  but  she  said  nothing,  and  at  last 
he  was  impelled  to  speak  once  more  himself. 

"I  don't  know  what  we  are  going  to  do,"  he  said, 
"my  creditors,  now  that  I've  been  beaten,  are  mak- 
ing my  office  a  rendezvous." 

He  spoke  bitterly,  as  debtors  do.  He  had  leaned 
forward,  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  chin  in  his 
palms,  and  he  looked  more  gloomily  than  ever  out 
of  the  window.  The  light  was  just  sufficient  to 
mark  the  outlines  of  his  really  fine  head,  while  the 
shadows  of  evening  softened  the  lines  in  his  face, 
the  harsh,  unpleasant  lines  that  a  few  years  had 
drawn  there.  She  studied  his  profile,  her  eye  ca- 
ressing his  curls,  the  curls  she  remembered  so  well 
— remembered,  because  she  had  a  troubled  sense  of 
thinking  now  of  Jerome  as  in  the  past.  She  gazed 
until  the  changes  wrought  by  the  short  years  of 
their  common  life  passed  away,  and  she  saw  again 
the  Jerome  of  old — her  own,  her  lost  ideal.  .  .  . 
If  he  had  only  gone  down  in  some  glorious  con- 
flict, through  some  mighty  sacrifice,  some  great  de- 
votion to  principle !  Why  had  he  failed  ?  Had  she 
not  tried  to  do  all  that  a  wife  could  to  help  and 
guide  him?  If  he  had  married  some  other  woman, 
some  woman  of  coarser  fiber,  who  would  not  have 
tried  to  keep  him  continually  up  to  such  high 
ideals?  She  paused,  some  sudden  shock  smote  her, 
she  felt  her  face  grow  cold  and  pale.  Another 
woman  married  to  Jerome  Garwood!  She  caught 
her  breath,  her  face  burned  as  the  blood  rushed 
back  to  her  cheeks  again,  and  then  suddenly,  im- 


The   Final    Returns  485 

pulsively,  she  spoke,  as  much  to  herself,  it  seemed, 
as  to  her  husband : 

"I  do  love  you  still,  Jerome!" 

Her  heart  beat  with  a  new  fierce  joy.  A  revela- 
tion had  come  to  her,  a  revelation  that  had  solved 
her  problem  in  an  instant,  a  thing  her  reason  had 
not  been  able  to  do  in  long  months.  She  loved  him 
still !  There  was  the  solution  to  her  riddle  of  life ! 
And  this,  this  was  the  auspicious,  the  psychological 
moment,  come  at  last!  She  waited  in  agony  for 
him  to  speak,  she  leaned  forward  expectantly,  and 
he  half  turned  his  head.  Her  eyes  widened,  almost 
flamed  forth,  as  she  felt,  to  meet  his  there  in  the 
darkness  that  had  suddenly  become  all  light  for  her. 
And  then  he  laughed,  a  little  laugh,  that  came 
harsh  on  the  stillness,  and  he  said: 

"Why  of  course  you  do." 

Her  eyes  fell.  He  took  it  then,  quite  in  the  old 
matter  of  course  way!  She  turned  her  face  aside, 
sick  with  disappointment. 

But  the  revelation  of  that  passionate  moment  had 
not  been  lost.  It  was  to  her,  sure  and  certain.  She 
could  not  doubt  it.  That  Jerome  had  taken  it  all 
as  he  had  could  make  no  difference  now  to  her. 
For  the  revelation  had  solved  her  problem,  made 
her  duty  clear,  and  that  was  enough.  The  results 
of  the  solution  had  not  been  those  of  her  heart's 
desire,  but  she  could  wait  for  that,  for  now  she 
beheld  the  light  of  a  new  theory,  a  new  ideal,  that 
quickly  glowed  into  an  Incandescence  that  illumined 
her  whole  soul.    Loving  Jerome  still,  she  must  live 


486  The  13  th   District 

for  him  still,  and  this  without  any  regard  to  what 
attitude  he  might  take. 

Her  own  happiness  was  of  no  importance;  it 
must  come,  if  at  all,  as  a  secondary  and  indirect 
result.  The  old  ideal  and  the  old  ambition  had 
been,  after  all,  but  selfish,  and  so  had  failed  not 
only  of  realization,  but  of  that  nobler  success  that 
comes  through  failure  in  the  high  endeavors  of 
life.  She  saw  it  all  clearly  now;  when  they  had 
together  dreamed  of  a  career,  it  was  not  with  the 
idea  of  being  of  real  help  to  those  about  them, 
but  merely  of  lifting  themselves  to  some  place 
that  would  distinguish  them  artificially  from  those 
about  them.  And  in  time,  pondering  on  her  re- 
lations to  others  in  the  world  besides  Jerome,  she 
found  that  what  was  true  of  her  relation  to  him 
was  true  of  her  relations  to  them;  that  her  duty 
was  to  live  for  them  as  well  as  for  him. 

Here  was  at  last  a  worthy  plan  of  existence,  an 
ideal,  not  of  self,  but  service.  It  was  simple  when 
she  put  it  to  herself  in  this  literal  way,  so  very 
simple  that  it  was  almost  trite,  yet  she  had  a  con- 
viction that  it  was  none  the  less  mightily  true. 
She  would  not  judge  Jerome,  but  love  him;  she 
would  not  expose  his  faults,  but  cover  them  with  a 
mantle  of  charity;  a  mantle  so  wide  that  it  would 
cover  as  well  all  others  groping  through  the  world 
with  their  sins  and  their  sufferings,  their  pitiable 
failures  and  their  lamentable  mistakes,  and  if,  even 
by  the  slow  and  loving  work  of  years,  she  could 
win  Jerome  in  time  to  this  new  ideal  that  had 
arisen  out  of  her  darkness  as  the  light  of  an  autumn 


The   Final    Returns  487 

morning  without  clouds  after  long  days  of  rain, 
then,  indeed,  could  his  talents  worthily  be  devoted 
to  the  people  he  already  thought  he  loved.  Now 
she  had  found  the  faith  in  life  so  necessary  to  her 
existence.  It  was  a  new  and  better  faith,  and  she 
could  wait  long  and  patiently,  if  need  be,  for  its 
complete   fulfilment. 

Under  the  stimulus  of  this  new-found  faith  in 
life,  in  an  almost  pathetic  determination  to  be  prac- 
tical— since  the  sentimental  seemed  to  be  denied 
her — she  decided  first  that  their  affairs  be  placed 
at  once  on  a  secure  foundation.  So  with  a  touch 
of  her  father's  own  uncompromising  rigor  in  busi- 
ness matters,  she  relentlessly  cast  up  all  their  ac- 
counts, and  if  she  winced  when  the  amount  of  Je- 
rome's debts  stared  her  in  the  face,  she  never- 
theless bravely  set  about  paying  them  of?,  devoting 
to  the  purpose  all  her  own  income,  now  grown 
small  with  the  periodical  return  of  hard  times.  And 
then,  last  heroism  of  all,  she  resolved  that  they  must 
give  up  their  old  home.  Jerome  demurred  a  little, 
but  presently  acquiesced. 

He  was  interested  anew  in  affairs,  he  had  perhaps 
had  revelations  of  his  own,  and  if  he  did  not  have 
resolutions,  he  nevertheless  had  hopes.  The  cam- 
paign was  on  again,  and,  in  a  spirit  of  what  he 
called  party  loyalty — as  onewho,winning  or  losing, 
honorably  lives  up  to  all  the  rules  of  the  game — 
he  was  stumping  the  district,  and  making  speeches 
for  the  ticket  with  as  much  of  his  old  fire  as  if  he 
had  been  on  the  ticket  himself.  Long  before  elec- 
tion his  old  self-satisfaction  had  returned,  he  was 


488  The  i3th   District 

as  full  of  splendid  schemes  as  a  bumblebee,  and  if 
his  disinterestedness  was  not  so  apparent  after 
election,  when  he  felt  that  his  chances  of  being 
appointed  to  a  territorial  judgeship  were  increasing 
more  and  more  as  the  short  session  of  Congress 
drew  near,  it  may  have  been  discovered  in  the  fact 
that,  as  an  alternative,  he  had  revived  his  old 
project  of  going  to  Chicago  to  practise  law.  If 
he  got  the  territorial  judgeship,  they  would  have 
to  move  West;  in  either  event,  he  said,  it  did  not 
matter  much  where  they  lived  for  the  time  being. 
He  thought  that  if  they  went  to  Chicago  he  might 
go  to  Congress  from  some  of  the  Chicago  districts 
— it  was  not  hard  to  get  into  politics  there.  But 
Emily  only  smiled. 

She  found  through  Morton,  a  tenant  for  the 
old  home.  She  sent  away  the  maids,  even  the  nurse, 
for  whom  the  children  cried,  and  Jasper,  who  cried 
himself,  until  his  very  despair  drove  him  to  refuse 
to  accept  the  discharge  at  all.  And  then  she  found 
a  smaller  house. 

The  last  load  of  furniture  had  rumbled  away  in 
a  covered  van  that  afternoon ;  as  the  early  twilight 
came  she  gave  a  final  look  into  the  empty  corners 
of  the  old  home,  picking  up  little  things  that  had 
been  overlooked,  and  then,  with  an  ache  at  the  heart 
for  its  emptiness  and  loneliness,  she  bade  it  fare- 
well. The  moving  had  been  an  ordeal.  She  had 
had  all  the  care  of  it,  though  Jerome's  mother  had 
helped,  but  beyond  this  was  the  spiritual  agony  of 
coming  across  old  things  she  had  not  seen  for  years, 
things  of  her  childhood,  things  of  her  girlhood ;  the 


The   Final    Returns  489 

dress  she  had  worn  when  first  she  met  Jerome 
• — he  had  told  her  to  preserve  it,  though  he  did  not 
know  where  it  was — things,  too,  of  her  mother's — 
a  trying  time  for  a  soul  already  so  heavily  laden. 

Now,  hurrying  along  in  the  gloom  of  this  No- 
vember evening,  she  glanced  at  the  big  houses  of 
the  prosperous,  and  they  repelled  her  with  the  flat 
austerity  of  their  own  provincial  exclusiveness.  As 
she  advanced,  these  residences  that  had  the  effect 
of  casting  her  off,  gradually  gave  way  to  homes, 
rows  of  cottages, decreasing  in  size  and  importance; 
but  as  they  grew  smaller,  Emily  observed  that  they 
grew  more  companionable.  Lights  were  beginning 
to  show  in  their  windows,  the  men  were  getting  in 
from  their  work,  and  she  could  hear  the  homely 
sounds  of  evening  chores. 

By  the  time  she  reached  the  humbler  street 
where  she  was  henceforth  to  live,  she  felt  a 
sympathy  with  these  unambitious  homes,  finding 
a  welcome,  as  it  were,  in  the  honest  faces  they 
presented  in  the  dusk.  She  gave  them  back  a 
brave  little  smile,  reflecting  her  wish  that  she  might 
find  the  peace  they  seemed  to  shelter.  Pursued 
along  those  silent  streets  by  the  memories  of  the 
old  home,  she  sought  refuge  in  planning  the  fur- 
nishing of  the  new,  mentally  compressing  the  too 
abundant  furniture  into  the  smaller  compass  with 
which  they  must  now  content  themselves. 

And  in  her  determination  to  begin  anew,  she 
simulated  for  the  sake  of  her  own  courage  the  pride 
and  joy  of  a  bride's  anticipation  in  setting  up  house- 
keeping.   Were  they  not  really  beginning  after  all? 


490  The  13th   District 

Had  not  the  years  since  their  marriage  been  years 
of  make-shift  and  make-believe?  Were  not  those 
years  even  now  falling  away  behind  her,  while 
brighter  ones  rose  before?  In  the  spring  she  would 
have  a  little  garden ;  she  could  imagine  John  Ethan 
and  his  little  sister  playing  among  the  flowers  that 
would  riot  there,  their  little  heads  bobbing  in  the 
yellow  sunlight.  At  the  thought  of  the  children 
she  quickened  her  steps. 

The  house  at  last  came  into  sight,  standing  in  a 
small  yard  with  a  low  picket  fence  about  it.  Some 
boy  was  passing  by,  showing  his  neighborliness  by 
rattling  a  stick  along  the  palings.  John  Ethan  must 
have  known  her  step,  light  and  hurried  as  it  was, 
for  as  she  turned  in  at  the  gate  the  door  of  the 
house  opened,  and  he  stood  there  in  the  light  that 
came  from  behind  him.  He  was  waiting  for  her. 
He  called  to  her  to  hurry,  and  she  ran  up  the  walk, 
caught  him  in  her  arms,  and  hugged  his  little  body 
to  her  breast.  The  baby  had  gone  to  sleep,  too 
tired  to  await  her  mother's  coming.  The  grand- 
mother was  cooking  supper  amidst  the  disorder  of 
the  furniture  and  the  boxes  that  had  been  crowded 
into  the  kitchen.  As  Emily  held  her  boy  to  her 
breast,  she  felt  the  tears  welling  to  her  eyes,  but  she 
told  herself  that  this  was  not  the  time  for  tears,  for 
here  began  that  new  unselfish  life  in  which  she 
hoped  at  some  far  ofT  distant  day  to  find  the  peace 
and  the  happiness  of  which  she  had  dreamed. 

THE    END 


A  LIST  OF  RECENT  FICTION  OF 
THE  BOWEN-MERRILL  COMPANY 


THE  GREAT  NOVEL  OF  THE  YEAR 

THE  MISSISSIPPI 
BUBBLE 

How  the  star  of  good  fortune  rose  and  set  and  rose 

again,  by  a  woman' s  grace,  for  one 

John  Law,  of  Lauriston 

A  novel  by  EMERSON  HOUGH 


Emerson  Hough  has  written  one  of  the  best  novels  that  has 
come  out  of  America  in  many  a  day.  It  is  an  exciting  story, 
with  the  literary  touch  on  every  page. 

— Jeannette  L.  Gilder,  of  TAe  Critic, 

In  "The  Mississippi  Bubble"  Emerson  Hough  has  taken 
John  Law  and  certain  known  events  in  his  career,  and  about 
them  he  has  woven  a  web  of  romance  full  of  brilliant  coloring 
and  cunning  work.  It  proves  conclusively  that  Mr.  Hough 
is  a  novelist  of  no  ordinary  quality. — Tie  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

As  a  novel  embodying  a  wonderful  period  in  the  growth  of 
America  "The  Mississippi  Bubble"  is  of  intense  interest.  As 
a  love  story  it  is  rarely  and  beautifully  told.  John  Law,  as 
drawn  in  this  novel,  is  a  great  character,  cool,  debonair,  auda- 
cious, he  is  an  Admirable  Crichton  in  his  personality,  and  a 
Napoleon  in  his  far-reaching  wisdom. — The  Chicago  American. 

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//  is  fresh  and  spontaneous^  having  nothing  of 

tliat  woode?i  quality  which  is  becoming 

associated   with    the    term 

"  historical  novel.' ^ 


HEARTS 
COURAGEOUS 

By  HALLIE  ERMINIE  RIVES 


"  Hearts  Courageous  "  is  made  of  new  material,  a  pic- 
turesque yet  delicate  style,  good  plot  and  very  dramatic 
situations.  The  best  in  the  book  are  the  defence  of  George 
Washington  by  the  Marquis  ;  the  duel  between  the  English 
officer  and  the  Marquis ;  and  Patrick  Henry  flinging  the 
brand  of  war  into  the  assembly  of  the  burgesses  of  Virginia. 
Williamsburg,  Virginia,  the  country  round  about,  ;and 
the  life  led  in  that  locality  just  before  the  Revolution,  form 
an  attractive  setting  for  the  action  of  the  story. 

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AN     INTERESTING     STORY     OF 
FAMILY    LIFE. 


THE 
FIGHTING  BISHOP 

By  HERBERT  M.  HOPKINS 


"  The  Fighting  Bishop  "  is  drawn  with  firm,  bold  strolces 
and  with  a  sufficiently  scholarly  atmosphere  to  make  the 
picture  life  like.  There  is  wisdom  too,  in  the  attitude  of  the 
author  toward  his  characters  ;  and  the  entire  atmosphere  of 
the  book  is  of  fine  quality.  The  general  accuracy  and 
vividness  of  the  portraiture  are  likely  to  impress  everyone. 
*  *  *  It  contains  passages  and  characterizations  that 
some  readers  will  find  it  difficult  to  torget.—  TAe  Hart/ord 
Courant. 

The  bishop's  musical  son,  Stephen's,  obstinate  vanity, 
h4s  irritable  nervous  nature,  his  impatience  of  advice  and  his 
wonderful  confidence  in  his  own  genius  are  admirably 
brought  out  in  the  course  of  the  narrative  and  the 
chapter  containing  his  letters  to  his  brother  is  one  of  the 
best  in  the  book.  It  shows  his  character  humorously  and 
without  exaggeration,  and  this  is  typical  of  the  whole  story. 
The  author  sees  his  personages  with  a  human  sympathic 
eye. — New  York  Sun. 


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"NOTHING   BUT    PRAISE" 

LAZARRE 

By  MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 


Glorified  by  a  beautiful  love  story. — Chicago  Tribune. 

We  feel  quite  justified  in  predicting  a  wide-spread  and 
prolonged  popularity  for  this  latest  comer  into  the  ranks  of 
historical  fiction. —  The  N.  V.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

After  all  the  material  for  the  story  had  been  collected  a 
year  was  required  for  the  writing  of  it.  It  is  an  historical 
romance  of  the  better  sort,  with  stirring  situations,  good  bits 
of  character  drawing  and  a  satisfactory  knowledge  of  the 
tone  and  atmosphere  of  the  period  involved. — A^.  Y,  Herald. 

Lazarre,  is  no  less  a  person  than  the  Dauphin,  Louis 
XVII.  of  France,  and  a  right  royal  hero  he  makes.  A  prince 
who,  for  the  sake  of  his  lady,  scorns  perils  in  two  hemis- 
pheres, facing  the  wrath  of  kings  in  Europe  and  the  bullets 
of  savages  in  America;  who  at  the  last  spurns  a  kingdom  that 
he  may  wed  her  freely— here  is  one  to  redeem  the  sins  of  even 
those  who  "never  learn  and  never  ioxgai.^—Philadelfhia 
North  A  merican. 

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A  VIVACIOUS  ROMANCE  OF  REVOLU- 
TIONARY DAYS 


ALICE  o/OLD 

VINCENNES 

By  MAURICE  THOMPSON 


Tbe  Atlanta  Constitution  says  ' 
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verse  have  made  his  reputation  national,  has  achieved  his 
master  stroke  of  genius  in  this  historical  novel  of  revolu- 
tionary days  in  the  West." 

The  Den-ver  Daily  Neivs  says! 
*'  There  are  three  great  chapters  of  fiction  i     Scott's  tourna- 
ment on  Ashby  field.  General  Wallace's  chariot  race,  and 
now  Maurice  Thompson's  duel  scene  and  the  raising  of 
Alice's  flag  over  old  Fort  Vincennes." 

The  Chicago  Times-Herald  says  : 
"  More  original  than  'Richard  Carvel,'  more  cohesive  than 
♦To  Have  and  To  Hold,'  more  vital  than  'Janice  Mere- 
dith,' such  is  Maurice  Thompson's  superb  American  ro- 
mance, 'Alice  of  Old  Vincennes.'  It  is,  in  addition, 
more  artistic  and  spontaneous  than  any  of  its  rivals." 

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A    STORY  BY  THE  "MARCH    KING" 

THE 
FIFTH  STRING 

By  JOHN  PHILIP  SOUSA 

The  "  March  King"  has  written  much  in  a  musical  way, 
but  "  The  Fifth  String  "  is  his  first  published  story.  In  the 
choice  of  his  subject,  as  the  title  indicates,  Mr.  Sousa  has 
remained  faithful  to  his  art;  and  the  great  public,  that  has 
learned  to  love  him  for  the  marches  he  has  made,  will  be  as 
delighted  with  his  pen  as  with  his  baton. 

"The  Fifth  String"  has  a  strong  and  clearly  defined 
plot  which  shows  in  its  treatment  the  author's  artistically 
sensitive  temperament  and  his  tremendous  dramatic  power. 
It  is  a  story  of  a  marvelous  violin,  of  a  wonderful  love  and  of 
a  strange  temptation. 

A  cover,  especially  designed,  and  six  full-page  illustra- 
tions by  Howard  Chandler  Christy,  serve  to  give  the  dis- 
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Mr.  Sousa  so  richly  deserves, 

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"A  NOVEL  THAT'S  WORTH  WHILE" 

The  REDEMPTION 
0/ DAVID  CORSON 

By  CHARLES  FREDERIC  GOSS 

A  Mid-century  American  Novel 
of  Intense  Power  and  Interest 


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weakness  and  wickedness,  of  love  and  license,  of  revenge 
and  remorse  in  an  intensely  interesting  way,  yet  it  is  above 
all  else  a  clean  and  pure  story.  No  one  can  read  it  and 
honestly  ask  *  what's  the  use.'  " 

Newell  Divight  Hillis,  Pastor  of  Plymouth  Church,  Brooklyn, 

says : 
"  '  The  Redemption  of  David  Corson'  strikes  a  strong,  healthy, 

buoyant  note." 

Dr.  F.  W.  Gunsaulus,  President  Armour  Institute,  says  : 
•'  Mr.  Goss  writes  with  the  truthfulness  of  light.  He  has 
told  a  story  in  which  the  fact  of  sin  is  illuminated  with  the 
utmost  truthfulness  and  the  fact  of  redemption  is  portrayed 
with  extraordinary  power.  There  are  lines  of  greatness  in 
the  book  which  I  shall  never  forget." 

President  M.  W.  Stryker,  Hamilton  College,  says  : 

*'  It  is  a  victory  in  writing  for  one  whose  head  seems  at  last 

to  have  matched  his  big  human  heart.    There  is  ten  times 

as  much  of  reality  in  it  as  there  is  in  •  David  Harum,'  which 

does  not  value  lightly  that  admirable  charcoal  sketch." 

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"THE  MERRIEST  NOVEL  OF  MANY, 
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MY  LADY  PEGGY 
GOES  TO  TOWN 

By  FRANCES  AYMAR  MATHEWS 

The  Daintiest  and    Most  Delightful   Book 
of  the  Season, 

A  heroine  almost  too  charming  to  be  true  is  Peggy,  and 
it  were  a  churlish  reader  who  is  not,  at  the  end  of  the  first 
chapter,  prostrate  betore  her  red  slippers.— IVasAz'ng/on  Posi. 

To  make  a  comparison  would  be  to  rank  "My  Lady 
Peggy"  with  "Monsieur  Beaucaire"  in  points  of  attraction, 
and  to  applaud  as  heartily  as  that  delicate  romance,  this 
picture  of  the  days  "When  patches  nestled  o'er  sweet  lips 
at  chocolate  times."— iV.  V.  Mail  and  Express. 

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"AS  CRISP  AND  CLEAN  CUT 
AS    A    NEW    MINTAGE." 


THE 
PUPPET   CROWN 

BY  HAROLD  MacGRATH 


A  princess  rarely  beautiful ;  a  duchess  magnificent  and 
heartless;  a  villain  revengeful  and  courageous;  a  hero  youth- 
ful, humorous,  fearless  and  truly  American;— such  are  the 
principal  characters  of  this  delightful  story. — Syracuse  Post- 
Standard, 

Harold  MacGratk  has  attained  the  highest  point  achiev- 
able in  recent  fiction.  We  have  the  climax  of  romance  and 
adventure  in  "The  Puppet  Crown.''  —  The  Philadelphia 
North  A  merican. 

Superior  to  most  of  the  great  successes. — St.  Paul  Pioneer 
Press. 

"The  Puppet  Crown"  is  a  profusion  of  cleverness. — Bal- 
timore  A  merican. 

Challenges  comparison  with  authors  whose  names  have 
become  immgrtal — Chicago  American. 

Latest  entry  in  the  list  of  winners. — Cleveland  World. 

With  illustrations  by  R.  Martine  Reay 
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AN    ADMIRABLE    SOCIAL  STUDY " 

THE   FALL  OF 
THE  CURTAIN 

By  HAROLD   BEGBIE 


The  purpose  of  this  brilliant  story  of  modem  English 
life  is  to  show  that  a  human  being,  well  brought-up, 
carefully  trained  in  the  outward  observances  of  religion, 
with  a  keen  intellectual  perception  of  the  difference 
between  right  and  wrong,  may  still  not  have  goodness, 
and  that  ambition  may  easily  become  the  dominating 
force  in  such  a  character.  So  the  book  may  be  called  a 
purpose  novel,  but  in  reading  it,  one  no  more  thinks  of 
applying  so  discredited  an  epithet  to  it  than  one  would 
think  of  applying  it  to    'Vanity  Fair." 

The  author  possesses  an  admirable  style,  clear, 
unaffected,  strong.  To  the  discriminating  public,  the 
book  is  certain  to  give  far  more  pleasure  than  that  public 
usually  gets  from  a  new  novel. 

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FULL  of  INCIDENT,  ACTION  ts"  COLOR 

LIKE 
ANOTHER  HELEN 

By  GEORGE  HORTON 


Mr.  Morton's  powerful  romance  stands  in  a  new  field  and 
brings  an  almost  unknown  world  in  reality  before  the  reader  — 
the  world  of  conflict  between  Greek  and  Turk. 

The  island  of  Crete  seems  real  and  genuine  after  reading 
this  book;  not  a  mere  spot  on  the  map.  The  tragic  and 
pathetic  troubles  of  this  people  are  told  with  sympathetic  force. 

Mr.  Horton  employs  a  vivid  style  that  keeps  the  interest 
alive  and  many  passages  are  filled  with  delicate  poetic  feeling. 

Things  happen  and  the  story  moves.  The  characters  are 
well  conceived  and  are  human  and  convincing.  Beyond  ques- 
tion Mr.  Morton's  fine  story  is  destined  to  take  high  rank  among 
the  books  of  the  day. 

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The  Chicago  Times-Herald  says  : 
"  Here  are  chapters  that  are  Stephen  Crane  plus  sympathy; 
chapters  of  illuminated  description  fragrant  vnXh  the  at- 
mosphere of  art." 


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"A  CHRONICLE  OF  MARVELS" 

THE  FIRST  MEN 
IN  THE  MOON 

By  H.  G.  WELLS 

Author  of  "The  War  oi  the  Worlds"  and  "Tales  of  Time 
and  Space." 


Mr.  Wells  writes  to  entertain  and  in  this  tale  of  the 
invention  of  "cavorite,"  and  the  subsequent  remarkable 
journey  made  to  the  moon  by  its  inventor,  he  has  succeeded 
beyond  measure  in  alternately  astounding,  convincing  and 
delighting  his  readers.  Told  in  a  straightforward  way,  with 
an  air  of  ingenuousness  that  disarms  doubt,  the  story 
chronicles  most  marvelous  discoveries  and  adventures  on 
the  mysterious  planet.  Mr.  Hering's  many  illustrations 
are  admirable.  Altogether  the  book  is  one  of  the  most 
original  and  entertaining  volumes  that  has  appeared  in 
many  a  day. 

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"AN  INDIANA  LOVE  STORY" 

ROSALYNDE'S 
LOVERS 

By  MAURICE  THOMPSON 
Author  of  "Alice  of  Old  Vincennes" 


As  Mr.  Thompson  avers,  this  is  "only  a  love  story," 
but  it  is  a  story  of  such  sweetness  and  wholesome  life 
that  it  will  at  once  claim  a  permanent  home  in  our  affections. 
The  love  of  nature,  so  prominent  a  characteristic  of  Mr. 
Thompson,  is  reflected  throughout  and  the  thunderstorm 
and  following  gleam  of  sun,  the  country  garden  and 
southern  lake  are  each  in  turn  invested  with  a  personality 
that  wins  our  instant  sympatliy.  Rosalynde  Banderet  is 
winsome  and  artless,  her  lovers  are  human  and  manly, 
and  her  final  happiness  is  ours.  Mr.  Peirson's  many 
pictures  are  entirely  worthy. 

With  many  Illustrations  and  Decorations  by 
G.  Alden  Peirson 

Ornamental  i2mo.    Cloth  Bound,  $1.50 


The  Bowen-Merrill  Company,   Indianapolis 


ANOTHER  SUCCESSFUL  HISTORICAL 
NOVEL 

THE    BLACK 
WOLF'S    BREED 

By  HARRIS  DICKSON 


From  the  Boston  Globe  : 
**  A  vigorous  tale  of  France  in  the  old  and  new  world  during 
the  reign  of  Louis  XIV." 

From  the  Philadelphia  Press : 
"  As  delightfiilly  seductive  as  certain  mint-flavored  beverages 
they  make  down  South." 

From  the  Los  Angeles  Herald : 
"  The  sword-play  is  great,  even  finer  than  the  pictures  in 
'  To  Have  and  To  Hold.'  " 

From  the  San  Francisco  Chronicle  : 
"  As  fine  a  piece  of  sustained  adventure  as  has  appeared  in 
recent  fiction." 

From  the  St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat : 
"There  is  action,  vivid  description  and  intensely  dramatic 
situations." 

From  the  Indianapolis  News  : 
"  So  full  of  tender  love-making,  of  gallant  fighting,  that  one 
regrets  it's  no  longer." 

Illustrated  by  C.  M.  Relyea.      Price  ^1.50 


The  Bowen-Merrill  Company,   Indianapolis 


"IN  LONDON  OF  LONG  AGO" 

THE 
FICKLE  WHEEL 

By  HENRY  THEW  STEPHENSON 


In  this  tale  of  merry  England,  of  the  time  when 
Shakespeare  jested  and  Ben  Johnson  blustered,  Mr. 
Stephenson  has  painted  for  us  a  picture  informing  and 
above  all  entertaining.  His  is  not  a  story  of  counts 
and  crowns,  but  of  the  ever  interesting  common  people. 
Without  seeming  to  do  so  the  author  shows  us  many 
interesting  bits  of  the  life  of  the  day.  We  go  to  Paul's 
walk,  we  see  Shakespeare  play  at  the  Globe  theatre  and 
other  such  glimpses  of  old  time  London  are  deftly  added 
to  our  experiences.  Throughout  ♦he  book  is  an  evanescent 
charm,  a  spirit  of  wholesome  gaiety.    It  is  well  worth  while. 

With  illustrations  by  C.  M.  Relyea 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  12  mo.     Price,  $1.50 


The  Bowen-Merrill  Company,   Indianapolis 


A    FINE    STORY 
OF   THE    COWBOY    AT    HIS    BEST 


WITH 
HOOPS  o/STEEL 

By  FLORENCE  FINCH  KELLY 

*'  The  friends  thou  hast,  and  their  adoption  tried, 
Grapple   them  to  thy  soul  with  hoops  of  steel " 


From  the  San  Francisco  Chronicle  : 
"  Western  men  and  women  will  read  it  because  it  paints 
faithfully  the  life  which  they  know  so  well,  and  because  it 
gives  us  three  big,  manly  fellows,  fine  types  of  the  cowboy 
at  his  best.  Eastern  readers  will  be  attracted  by  its  splendid 
realism." 

From  Julian  Hawthorne  : 
"  For  my  own  part,  I  finished  it  all  in  one  day,  and  dreamt 
it  over  again  that  night.      And  I  am  an  old  hand,  heaven 
knows.*' 

From  the  Den-ver  Times: 
"Mrs.  Kelly's  characters  stand  out  from  the  background  of 
the  New  Mexican  plains,  desert  and  mountain  with  all  the 
distinctness  of  a  Remington  sketch." 

With  six  illustrations,  in  color,  by  Dan  Smith 
Price,  ^1.50 


The  Bowen- Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis 


VIGOROUS,  ELEMENTAL,  DRAMATIC 


A    HEART 
OF   FLAME 

The  story  of  a  Master  Passion 

BY  CHARLES  FLEMING  EMBREE 

Author  of  "A  Dream  of  a  Throne." 


The  men  and  women  in  this  story  are  children  of  the 
soil.  Their  strength  is  In  their  nearness  to  nature.  Their 
minds  are  vigorous,  their  bodies  powerful,  their  passions 
elemental,  their  courage  sublime.  They  are  loyal  in  friend- 
ship, persistent  in  enmity,  determined  in  purpose. 

The  story  is  a  story  of  great  wrongs  and  of  supreme  love. 
It  is  done  in  black  and  white,  with  few  strokes,  but  they  are 
masterly.  The  shadows  at  the  back  are  somber  but  the 
value  of  contrast  is  appreciated  for  the  vivid  high  light  in 
the  foreground. 

It  is  a  work  of  art— powerful,  convincing  and  abiding. 
Powerful,  because  true  to  life ;  convincing,  for  it  has  the 
saving  touch  of  humor;  and  abiding  because  love,  like  "A 
Heart  of  Flame,"  prevails  in  the  end. 

With  illustrations  by  Dan  Smith 
izmo.  cloth.     Price,  $1.50. 


The  Bowen-Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis 


"  DIFFICULT  TO    FORGET  " 

A   FEARSOME 
RIDDLE 

By  MAX  EHRMAN 

This  mystery  story,  based  on  the  theory  of  the 
arithmetical  rhythm  of  time,  contains  much  of  the  same 
fascination  that  attaches  to  the  tales  of  Pee.  Simply 
told,  yet  dramatic  and  powerful  in  its  unique  conception, 
it  has  a  convincing  ring  that  is  most  impressive.  The 
reader  can  not  evade  a  haunting  conviction  that  this 
wonderful  experiment  must  in  reality  have  taken  place. 
Delightful  to  read,  difficult  to  forget,  the  book  must  evoke 
a  wide  discussion. 

With  Pictures  by  Virginia  Keep 
12  mo.     Cloth,  ^i.oo 

The  Bowen-Merrill  Company,  Indianapolis 


A   STORY   TOLD   BY  A   REAL  STORY- 
TELLER 


A    SON     OF 
AUSTERITY 

By  GEORGE  KNIGHT 


Mr.  Knight  has  created  a  real  atmosphere  for  his  men  and 
wcrfien  to  breathe,  and  his  men  and  women  take  deep  breaths. 
They  are  alive,  they  are  human,  they  are  real. 

He  has  a  delightful  story  to  tell  and  knows  how  to  tell 
it.  It  is  a  story  of  human  life,  of  possible  people  in  possible 
situations,  living  out  their  little  span  of  life  in  that  state  in 
which  it  has  pleased  God  to  call  them. 

The  reader  realizes  at  once  that  Mr.  Knight  is  a  man  who 
served  his  seven  years  of  apprenticeship  before  opening  a  shop 
on  his  own  account. 

The  deftness  and  charm  of  his  literary  style,  combined 
with  the  absorbing  interest  of  the  story,  can  not  but  prove  a 
delight  to  every  reader. 

With  a  frontispiece  by  Harrison  Fisher 
I  2mo,  Cloth.      Price,  $1.50 

The  Li-verpool  Mercury  says  : 
"  This  is  a  book  far  removed  from  the  ordinary  mass  of  fea- 
tureless fiction.      There  is  no  gainsaying  the  strength  of 
characterization  and  the  command  of  English  language." 


The  Bowen-Merrill  Company,    htdianapolis 


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